Jungian Psychology in the East and West: Cross-Cultural Perspectives from Japan 9780367766894, 9780367766887, 9781003168133

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Jungian Psychology in the East and West

It is well known that Jung’s investigation of Eastern religions and cultures supplied him with an abundance of cross-cultural comparative material, useful to support his hypotheses of the existence of archetypes, the collective unconscious and other manifestations of psychic reality. However, the specific literature dealing with this aspect has previously been quite scarce. This unique edited collection brings together contributors writing on a range of topics that represent an introduction to the differences between Eastern and Western approaches to Jungian psychology. Readers will discover that one interesting feature of this book is the realization of how much Western Jungians are implicitly or explicitly inspired by Eastern traditions – including Japanese – and, at the same time, how Jungian psychology – the product of a Western author – has been widely accepted and developed by Japanese scholars and clinicians. Scholars and students of Jungian studies will find many new ideas, theories, and practices gravitating around Jungian psychology, generated by the encounter between East and West. Another feature that will be appealing to many readers is that this book may represent an introduction to Japanese philosophy and clinical techniques related to Jungian psychology. Konoyu Nakamura is Professor of Clinical Psychology at Otemon Gakuin University in Osaka, Japan. She is involved in clinical work at her private practice in Kyoto as a Jungian-oriented psychotherapist. She has contributed chapters to several books, including Analytical Psychology in a Changing World: The Search for Self, Identity and Community (2015) and Jungian Perspective on Rebirth and Renewal Phoenix Rising (2017). She was responsible for translating Susan Rowland’s Jung: A Feminist Revision into Japanese (2021). She is a member of the International Association for Jungian Studies and is a member of the Executive Committee of the International Association for Jungian Studies for the 2015–2020 term and she was also Co-Chair of the 2019 IAJS Regional Conference, Osaka, Japan, at Otemon Gakuin University. Stefano Carta is a psychologist and a Jungian analyst graduate at the C.G. Jung Institute in Zurich. He is Professor of Dynamic and Clinical Psychology at the University of Cagliari, Italy, and Honorary Professor at the Department of Psychoanalytic Studies at the University of Essex, UK. He is a member of the International Association of Analytical Psychology and of the Associazione Italiana di Psicologia Analitica (AIPA), of which he was the president for the 2002–2006 term. He has been the representative for Italy at the United Nations’ International Union of Psychological Sciences. He has also been a consultant for UNESCO, for which he has edited a three-volume entry on psychology for the Encyclopedia of Life Support Systems. He is the director of the oldest Jungian journal in Italy, The Rivista di Psicologia Analitica, and has been the deputy Europe editor of the Journal of Analytical Psychology.

Jungian Psychology in the East and West Cross-Cultural Perspectives from Japan

Edited by Konoyu Nakamura and Stefano Carta

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Konoyu Nakamura and Stefano Carta; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Konoyu Nakamura and Stefano Carta to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-76689-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-76688-7 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-16813-3 (ebk) Typeset in Galliard by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

List of figures Notes on contributors Introduction

viii x xiv

KO N O Y U N AKA MU RA

Introduction

1

STEFANO CARTA

PART 1

East and West 1 How can we survive in this Globalized Age? Exploring ego consciousness in the Western and the Japanese psyche

13

15

M E G U M I YAMA

2 Cultural reflection in Eastern and Western tales of the mirror

26

L Y N LEE L Y C K BERG

3 East meets West in World War II: implications for Japan’s maternal culture

35

D AVI D F I S H E R

4 The Cultural Father in East-West Psychology

43

EL L Y LI N

PART 2

Images 5 Narcissism and difference: narcissism of minor differences revisited KAZU N O RI KONO

51

53

vi

Contents

6 Encountering the other world in Japanese Manga: from Hyakki-yako-zu to pocket monsters

64

KO N O Y U N A KA MU RA

7 Ancient Chinese Hieroglyph: archetype of transformation of Jungian psychology and its clinical implication

75

AD EL I N A WEI KWA N WO NG

8 The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi: dreams, visions, and his youth

84

J U N KI TAYAMA

PART 3

Clinical issues 9 Intimate relationships between women and men: psychosocial and post-Jungian perspectives

95

97

AN D REW S A MU EL S

10 On compassion – a vessel that holds our relationships with others

109

S H O I C H I KAT O

11 Ensou and tree view therapy: Zen-based psychotherapy from Hisamatsu and Kato theory

118

KO J I RO M I WA

12 Drawings without a tree in response to the Baum test by a patient with refractory chronic schizophrenia: the fundamental individuation process in an affected patient

127

H I M E KA M AT S U S HITA

PART 4

Identity and individuation

139

13 The house imago and the creation of order

141

P I - C H EN H SU A ND HIRO FU MI KU RO DA

14 From dragons to leaders: Latvian and Japanese psyches, and an organic consciousness E VI J A VO L FA VES T ERGA A RD

150

Contents 15 Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures: psychological inner movement in Western and Eastern culture

vii 161

TS U Y O S H I I N OMATA

16 Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche as seen from the tales and dreams of the Ainu culture

172

M AY U M I F U RU KAWA

17 Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy of care and education in relation to Jungian psychology

183

R Y U TARO N I S HI

Index

193

Figures

1.1 Two models of Japanese consciousness and Westerner’s consciousness according to Hayao Kawai 3.1 Emperor Showa 6.1 A scene from Cho¯ju¯-jinbutsu-giga (wildlife caricatures) Volume Ko 6.2 Shunboku Ooka (1720), ‘In the pot of hell’, in Keihitsu Toba Kuruma 6.3 Katsushika Hokusai (1819) Facial Expressions in 6 frames, in Hokusami-manga Volume 10 6.4 A part of Hyakki-yako-zu, by Mitsunori Tosa, in the sixteenth century 6.5 R yukanjin Masazumi (1853) Tofukozo, in Tenmei Roujin (ed.) Kyouka Hyakumonogatari 6.6 Mizuki, S. (2004) Kitaro and his mates, from Kitaro Dai Hyakka [Great Encyclopedia of Kitaro] 7.1 Ada’s work no.1 7.2 Ada’s work no.2 7.3 Ada’s work no.3 7.4 Ada’s work no.4 7.5 Ada’s work no.5 7.6 Ada’s work no.6 7.7 Ada’s work no.7 7.8 Ada’s work no.8 7.9 Calligraphy 11.1 Structure of archetypal Self and Formless self 12.1 Three types of tree drawings with “open-ended trunks” by schizophrenic patients 12.2 Patient A’s drawing (A-1) 12.3 Patient A’s drawing (A-3) 12.4 Patient A’s drawing (A-4) 12.5 Patient A’s drawing (A-6) 12.6 Patient A’s drawing (A-7) 13.1 Patient Artwork No. 1

17 41 65 66 66 68 69 70 77 78 78 79 79 80 80 81 81 121 128 131 132 133 134 135 143

Figures ix 13.2 13.3 13.4 13.5 13.6 14.1 16.1 16.2

Patient Artwork No. 2 Patient Artwork No. 3 Patient Artwork No. 4 Patient Artwork No. 5 Patient Artwork No. 6 Maturation of organic consciousness Clay figure of holding a baby The hearth is in the middle of the house

144 145 146 146 147 158 174 177

Contributors

David Fisher David Fisher, PhD, is an executive director of The Moral Injury Institute located in Port Orchard, WA, USA. He has presented papers at the conferences of IAJS, JSSS, and Division 32 of the APA. His research interests lie in the domains of Moral Injury, the Psychological Sequela of War, and Archetypal Analytics. He holds a PhD in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute and took his master’s degree in International Management & Bachelors in Quantitative Methods from the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, MN. Mayumi Furukawa Mayumi Furukawa is a psychotherapist, clinical psychologist, and certified public psychologist. Currently, she is a psychotherapist at Center for Research on Counselling and Support Services in the University of Tokyo and a clinical institution. Based on Jungian psychology, she is interested in searching deep psyche expressed in dreams, images, and artworks. Her publications include Atypicalization of Development and Psychotherapy (co-authored, 2016, Sogensha) and “Interpenetration between dreams and reality” in the Japanese Journal of Jungian Psychology (2016, Practice and Clinical Issues). She is a member of the Japan Association of Sandplay Therapy and the Japan Association of Jungian Psychology. Pi-Chen Hsu Pi-Chen Hsu, PsyD, is a clinical psychologist in California, a counseling psychologist in Taiwan, and an analyst member of the Taiwan Society of Analytical Psychology. Dr. Hsu received her doctoral degree from California Institute of Integral Studies, and she received analytical psychology training through the International Analytical Psychology Scholar Program of the San Francisco Jung Institute. Tsuyoshi Inomata Tsuyoshi Inomata is a psychologist and a Jungian analyst. He is working as a clinical psychologist in hospitals and schools and practices privately in Tokyo. He is currently an associate professor at Tezukayama Gakuin University. He has been working in the field of multilayered realities such as clinical, educational,

Contributors

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folkloric, and art, focusing on the medium of the mind. He is the author of The Time of Psychology (Nihon Hyoronsha) and Voices from the Holocaust (editor and author, Sayuusha). He has also translated some books of C.G. Jung (Sogensha) and Wolfgang Giegerich (Nihon Hyoronsha and Sogensha). Shoichi Kato Shoichi Kato received Master of Literature in Philosophy from the Graduate School of Kanazawa University in 1993. In 2017, after more than 20 years of work as a company employee and then a freelance interpreter for clients from various industries, he began studying at the Graduate School of Kyoto Bunkyo University, where he received Master of Arts in Clinical Psychology in 2019. He is currently a student at the International School of Analytical Psychology in Zurich, Switzerland. Jun Kitayama Jun Kitayama, Ph.D., is a professor at the Faculty of Letters, Department of Psychology, Gakushuin University, Tokyo. He received a PhD in Psychology from Sophia University in 2018. He authored the book Clinical Psychology Practice with the Elderly: Commitment to the Spirit of those Growing Old. He is a trained Certified Clinical Psychologist and a Certified Public Psychologist. He has been practicing at a psychiatric clinic, a psychiatric daycare for older persons, and a university counseling office. Kazunori Kono Kazunori Kono is a specially appointed lecturer at Baika Women’s University, Osaka. He obtained his PhD from Kyoto University in 2012. Since 2019, he is a board member of Lacanian Society of Japan. Working as a clinical psychologist mainly with adolescents, he has published articles on clinical psychology, Lacanian psychoanalysis, and psychoanalytical approach to culture. Hirofumi Kuroda Hirofumi Kuroda, Psy.D., currently works at a community mental health agency. Graduated from California School of Professional Psychology at Alliant International University, San Francisco. Interested in neuropsychological evaluation and intergenerational work between older adults and children. He is interested in neuropsychological assessment and intergenerational program. Elly Lin Dr. Elly Lin currently holds a psychotherapy practice in San Francisco and is a candidate member of the C. G. Jung Institute of San Francisco. Her crosscultural perspective comes from her lived experiences in both China and the United States. Lynlee Lyckberg Dr. Lynlee Lyckberg is an East West scholar who earned an MFA in Arts and Consciousness Studies from John F. Kennedy University in 2005 and a PhD in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute in 2016. She spent time at the University of Hangzhou,

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Contributors China, in 2001, where she studied Traditional Chinese Arts and Healing, and her doctoral work focused on the nature of the visual image in healing. She is a certified Dreamtender and is currently working on a license in Counseling Psychology.

Himeka Matsushita Himeka Matsushita, PhD, is a certified clinical psychologist. She is an associate professor of Clinical Psychology at the Graduate School of Education, Kyoto University in Japan. She has more than 25 years of experience in clinical psychology practice as a clinical psychologist in counseling rooms, psychiatric hospitals, educational facilities, and welfare facilities. She mainly researches and practices clinical psychology from the perspective of Jungian psychology. She is particularly interested in the qualitative aspects of verbal and nonverbal images and psychological experiences expressed in narratives and drawings. Kojiro Miwa Kojiro Miwa is a clinical psychologist with a master’s degree and the chief of the Clinical Psychology Department in Sakamoto mental hospital. Konoyu Nakamura See Editor’s Notes. Ryutaro Nishi Dr. Ryutaro Nishi is a certified psychologist and researcher in ECCE (early childhood care and education). He earned his PhD from Kyoto University with a thesis on the interactional approach to psychoanalytic psychotherapy in 2002, mainly focusing on the theory of M. Balint and R. Langs, both of whom are “unknowing Jungians”. He is a professor at Notre Dame Seishin University in Japan. He published over 30 articles and wrote Kodomo-to Deau Hoikugaku (Encountering Children: A Humanistic and Relational Approach to Childcare), a book about Japanese ECEC philosophy and practice seen from a psychoanalytic viewpoint. Andrew Samuels Andrew Samuels was a professor of Analytical Psychology at the University of Essex and is a training analyst at the Society of Analytical Psychology, London. He works as a political and management consultant internationally and to Britain’s National Health Service. He was the co-founder of the International Association for Jungian Studies and also of Psychotherapists and Counsellors for Social Responsibility (United Kingdom). He is a former chair of the United Kingdom Council for Psychotherapy. His many books have been translated into 21 languages and include Jung and the Post-Jungians (1985), The Political Psyche (1993), and A New Therapy for Politics? (2016). Videos and interviews are on www.andrewsamuels.com Evija Volta Vestergaard Evija Volfa Vestergaard (PhD, Depth Psychology) is an independent researcher and the acting vice president of Jungian Society for Scholarly Studies. She is

Contributors

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the author of books on Jung, cultural trauma, and emergent potential for healing, including Trauma, Cultural Complexes, and Transformation: Folk Narratives and Present Realities (2018) and My Dragon of Riches (2017). Adelina Wei Kwan Wong Adelina Wei Kwan Wong, JA, CST-T, MFT, graduated with MA in Psychological Counseling from University of Ottawa, Canada, and MA in Christian Spirituality from Creighton University, USA. Adelina is a fellow of Hong Kong Professional Counseling Association (HKPCA), an approved supervisor of American Association of Marriage and Family Therapy (AAMFT), a certified sandplay therapy teacher of International Society of Sandplay Therapy (ISST), and a Jungian analyst of International Association of Analytical Psychology (IAAP). She has been doing clinical practice, teaching, and training for 35 years and is now in private practice in Hong Kong. Megumi Yama Megumi Yama, PhD, is a professor of Clinical Psychology and Depth Psychology at Kyoto University of Advanced Science. She is also engaged in clinical work as a psychotherapist based on Jungian principles. She was educated in clinical psychology at Kyoto University under Prof. Hayao Kawai, where she received her PhD. Her interest is in the process of creative work. She deals with the theme by exploring clinical materials, art, myth, literature, and Japanese culture. She has given many lectures and seminars in United States, United Kingdom, China, and Taiwan. She has written many articles and books, including translations in both English and Japanese.

Introduction Konoyu Nakamura

I take great satisfaction in publishing this book, Jungian Psychology in the East and West: Cross-Cultural Perspectives from Japan, co-edited with Professor Stefano Carta. This was my first experience editing an English book; it was thrilling and challenging work. This is a collection of papers presented by prominent analysts, analytical psychologists, and scholars from all over the world at the 2019 International Association for Jungian Studies (IAJS) Regional Conference, titled “Jungian Psychology: East and West, encountering differences”, in Osaka, Japan, the first such meeting held by the International Association for Jungian Studies (IAJS) in Asia. This event was held at Otemon Gakuin University and was supported by the Japan Association of Jungian Psychology (JAJP). I had the honor of hosting the conference as chair. Kiley Laughlin and I came up with the theme. As is well known, in the early 1920s C. G. Jung’s interests drifted toward Eastern religion and culture (Jung 1936, 1939, 1944, 1948, 1953, 1954). This turning point in Jung’s career serendipitously coincided with his study of Richard Wilhelm’s Secret of the Golden Flower and Heinrich Zimmer’s Artistic Form and Yoga in the Sacred Images of India. Jung’s investigation of Eastern religion and culture supplied him with an abundance of cross-cultural material to compare with his hypotheses of archetypes, the collective unconscious, and other manifestations of psychic reality. There was something else in the East, however, that seemed to form the nucleus of his personal myth. In fact, this myth seems to have culminated with a figurative journey to the East, where the sun is continuously reborn, a motif that Jung referred to as a night sea journey, symbolizing an effort to adapt to the conditions of psychic life. The wisdom found in the East seems to have provided Jung with a sense of psychic orientation, and a partial road map, to navigate his own journey of individuation. Based on this, Jung further adapted his theories and practices and applied them to his psychology. His encounter with Eastern culture thus marked an attempt to synthesize a greater whole by showing what we can learn from differences. Our conference, therefore, focused on what is created when differences are encountered, a difficult task indeed. In Japan alone there are various traditions, religions, social systems, and cultures, developed over a long history that has

Introduction xv involved adapting science, religious, and cultural influences from abroad (Reischauer 1970). Jung noted: To us [in the West], consciousness is inconceivable without an ego. . . . If there is no ego there is nobody to be conscious of anything. The ego is therefore indispensable to conscious processes. The eastern mind, however, has no difficulty in conceiving of a consciousness without an ego. Consciousness is deemed capable of transcending its ego condition; indeed, in its “higher” forms, the ego disappears altogether. (1954, para 774) On the other hand, Kawai (1976) opined that Japan is a “maternal society” differing from the Western paternal one in that the Japanese ego is nearer unconsciousness. This theme aptly suited the first IAJS conference held in Japan. A lot of excellent papers were presented, including four keynote presentations, by Iwao Akita, Stefano Carta, Andrew Samuels, and Megumi Yama, plus 25 speeches by Jungian analysts, psychotherapists, and scholars from places as diverse as America, United Kingdom, China, Italy, Japan, Latvia, and Taiwan. It was attended by more than a hundred participants from around the globe. It lasted only two days but led to sparkling discussions and sparked enduring friendships. It thus literally embodied meaningful bonds between East and West in the name of Jungian psychology. This book includes some of the notable papers presented, divided into four sections: Part I: East and West, Part II: Images, Part III: Clinical Issues, and Part IV: Identity and Individuation. The separate chapters are introduced in detail by Professor Stefano Carta. Readers will note how widespread and deeply rooted Jungian psychology is in Japan. At the same time, they will note how relevant this Eastern perspective is for scholars and clinicians around the world, especially those involved in psychotherapy and cross-cultural studies. Naturally, this group includes more than three thousand members in IAAP, the four hundred members in IAJS, and the six hundred members in JAJP, as well as trainees and university students in analytical psychology. It should also appeal to psychiatrists, sociologists, and medical anthropologists. We expect this book will be recommended reading in university courses in clinical and analytical psychology, both undergraduate and postgraduate, both in Japan and internationally. It will also surely draw the interest of the 30,000 certifcated clinical psychologists in Japan, and I believe it will provide new horizons for the whole Jungian community. This book was made possible by three people deserving special mention: Mr. Toshiaki Kawahara, the former president of Otemon Gakuin University, who gave us generous financial support; Kiley Laughlin, who served as co-chair; and Dr. Hiroshi Kuranishi, who acted as general secretary of the conference. I also

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express my appreciation to all the board members of IAJS at that time, especially Liz Brodersen, Robin McCoy Brooks, Camilla Giambonini, and Jon Mills, who made contributions as reviewers. Special thanks to my dearest friend, Professor Stefano Carta, who has long been warmly watching over me and often making useful suggestions and giving effective advice based on his abundance of experience. Finally, I express my gratitude to Jacy Hui, an excellent editor at Routledge Publishing House. She has consistently helped me with great patience. Of course, there are many others, too many to name, who also deserve my thanks.

References Jung, C.G. (1936). Yoga and the West. CW. 11, 529–537. ———. (1939). Foreword to Suzuki’s Introduction to Zen Buddhism. CW. 11, 538–557. ———. (1944). The Holy Men of India. CW. 11, 576–588. ———. (1948). The Psychology of Eastern Meditation. CW. 11, 558–575. ———. (1953). Psychology Commentary on The Tibetan Book of the Dead. CW. 11, 509–526. ———. (1954). Psychological Commentary on the Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation. CW. 11, 475–508. Kawai, H. (1976). Boseisyakai Nihon no Byori [Pathology in Maternal Society, Japan]. Tokyo: Chuokoronsya. Reischauer, E.O. (1970). Japan Past and Present. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd.

Introduction Stefano Carta

This book represents a further step in a dialogue between two quite complex subjects: the so-called East and the so-called West. The very fact that the contributions that follow this introduction may be seen as a dialogue is perfectly in line with the essence of Jungian thought. In fact, the Jungian paradigm is dialectic and dialogical all the way down: from the fundamental epistemological principle of the structural relationship between a pair of opposites, from which a third – a symbol – may arise (a symbol eventually incarnated in and yet transcending the “material” reality into a fourth), to the clinical setting seen by Jung as a dialectic process between two subjects. Now, as in the title of this collection of chapters, the two subjects that will weave such a dialogue are the “East” and the “West.” From this very first fact I would like to point out one of the essential challenges of Jungian thought – the relationship between similarities (the archetypal level) and differences (the individual level). In fact, it may well be that neither of them may actually be found in the world – in the object – but only “in the eyes of the beholder.”1 This becomes immediately apparent when we compare the main attitude of anthropology and of analytical psychology in reference to the symbolic world, as I doubt that any anthropologist would agree to recognize something as “East” and “West” as realistic autonomous, homogeneous, and comparable subjects. This issue, which deeply regards Jung’s thought, may be exemplified by a passage such as the following: Even a superficial acquaintance with Eastern thought is sufficient to show that a fundamental difference divides East and West. The East bases itself upon the psyche as the main and unique condition of existence. It seems as if the Eastern recognition were a psychological or temperamental fact rather than a result of philosophical reasoning. It is a typically introverted point of view contrasted with the typically extroverted point of view of the West. (Jung, 1969, §770) Here, the point is not only whether this interpretation about the “typical” introversion of the East or extroversion of the West actually adheres to reality (which would imply that there should be a definitely reduced minority of

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extroverted individuals in the East and of introverted ones in the West, therefore making of these anthropological worlds wholly disadaptive cultures and antisymbolic milieus for those who do not fit the typological majority) but also how much, on a hermeneutic level, this reference to such “typical” characteristics – this way of looking at reality through similarities – instead of revealing actually conceals the complexities of our object of enquiry. I think that a well-tempered attitude must keep the tension between the two opposite polarities of sameness and difference, for which something like “the East” or “the West” at the same time exists and does not exist. In fact, when we approach our subject from a unifying attitude, we decide to look at the forest from far away in order not only to search but actually see what all its parts have in common. Yet, at the same time we must also accept to deconstruct this unity into its multiple differences and into the process of their historical unfolding. Therefore, my recommendation is to read this book with this double perspective in mind, for which what may be recognized as the “same” – in our case belonging to an “East,” or to a “West” – may be recognized only through different individual vantage points, whose symbolic and historical specificity must be cherished and protected. After all, this may be one of the ways to describe what Jung called the individuation process itself. For instance, in the first chapter of this book Megumi Yama writes: In this era of rapid globalization, it is sometimes heard that it may be doubtful that the concepts of “the West” and “the East” are as applicable as they were in the past. However, I would like to posit that however borderless our globe seems to be at a superficial level, if we go down deep to the roots, we can see a fundamental difference in the structure of each culture’s psyche. This is perhaps because they were established on a basis of their own unique psychological histories and backgrounds that should not be ignored. This issue regarding sameness, difference and identity is specifically discussed by Kazunori Kono in Chapter 5. Discussing the Freudian concept of “narcissism of minor differences” in clinical and social situations, Kono revisits the concept of narcissism from the perspective of Freudian-Lacanian psychoanalysis and Jungian analytical psychology. For him, The concept of narcissism has been misunderstood and abused. Contrary to common belief, narcissism as well as sublimation is at the intersection of the individual and society. Encountering differences through others causes us to react in a variety of ways. Worrying about differences, we may fall into the pursuit of objects beyond our reach. Or, the pursuit of differences itself would lead to the denial and annihilation of others. In this regard, we can point out that the pursuit of difference is tied to fear of uniformity. Therefore, it is also important to be aware of that fear and accept the fact that you are, to some extent, the same as others. And yet, we continue to reconstruct our identity with minor differences.

Introduction 3 In my opinion, this dialectical movement between sameness and otherness through big or little differences is a key issue that we must always take into consideration when we deal with comparative issues such as the ones this collection of writings is dealing with. In fact, this is the fundamental starting point for this whole book – the recognition of fundamental differences between the Eastern and the Western psyche and similarities within them while keeping in mind that also what seems similar will eventually reveal specific “individual” differences that are as precious as the similarities. Seen this way, this is not a just good starting point, but it actually is a necessary one. If we go back to the Jungian paradigm of the dialectic relationship between opposites, we may describe it in psychodynamic terms as the relationship between consciousness and the unconscious. The more the Eastern psyche seems “introverted” to the Westerner (or the other way around, extroverted for the Easterner), the more probable it is that the latter is actually coming into contact with his own introversion through his extroverted conscious attitude. In this regard, I find quite telling that the text that perhaps was the most revelatory for Jung, a protestant Swiss, was the Secret of the Golden Flower, a Chinese treatise that Richard Wilhelm brought to his attention in 1928. In Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1989) Jung wrote: I devoured the manuscript at once, for the text gave me undreamed-of confirmation of my ideas about the mandala and the circumambulation of the center. That was the first event which broke through my isolation. I became aware of an affinity; I could establish ties with something and someone. (p. 197) I think that through the Eastern psyche Jung could come into contact with his personal and his anthropological unconscious. Similarly, the most influential Japanese Jungian analyst and author, Hayao Kawai, could initiate his own dialogue with himself and his unconscious through a dream: In the dream, I picked up many Hungarian coins. These coins had the design of an old Taoist sage on them. Given my association to Hungary, the dream seemed to suggest that, to me, Hungary was a bridge to East and West. My analyst said that, to judge from this dream, I eventually might gain insights of great value for the relationship between East and West. When I reflect on the course of my life, I recognize that what my analyst surmised indeed has been realized. (1996, p. 17) I find this dream, and what it meant for Kawai, very moving and meaningful, as it represents a special form, very noticeable indeed, of Jung’s “transcendent function” at work, for which the opposites – in this case Kawai’s own Easterness and Westerness – were recognized and transcended. From many of Kawai’s invaluable contributions, another very important feature of the unfolding of this process is that, through his own West, Kawai found

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his own East in a deeper and highly personal (individual) form. Perhaps, the most interesting example is his reference to Buddhism as something that he did not wholly understand, something that he could not really be. Yet, through his pages one may appreciate how much of such Buddhism he had discovered and recognized in himself. This is to say that the dialogue between West and East may well bring a Westerner to be more conscious of his own Western nature through his own unconscious East and vice versa. In the case of Jung, this relationship with the unconscious, seen as the relationship with one’s other side of the world, has been described in Chapter 1 of this book by Megumi Yama as a descent into the world of the dead, that Jung commenced in his Gnostic diary Septem Sermones ad Mortuos (in Jung, 1989). Therefore, if from an Ego point of view we are dealing with an East–West relationship, for the point of view of the Self we are actually transiting between the world of the living and the world of the dead. From my Westerner perspective, reading the chapters that I am trying to introduce I often felt to be in contact with a deep dialogue between differences which have been contaminating each other. In fact, while through these pages the authors were describing the specificities and peculiarities of the East and the West, I kept recognizing also many striking underpinning similarities. This may well be caused by the very nature of my training, profession, and, perhaps, individual inclination, but it may also be due to the very fabric of analytical psychology itself which, together with other psychodynamic currents of thought, such as those by Fromm, Bion, or Winnicott, are able to come closer to a core common to all humans, belonging to the West as to the East. One example is the reference to the fact that in the Japanese psyche the boundary between consciousness and unconsciousness is much vaguer than in that of Westerners, and that it may actually lack a center at all. Megumi Yama describes this condition through some wonderful examples and images of gardens and art (Chapter 1), yet, while reading her contribution, I could recognize the “Western” trace of Hilman’s position, for whom there is no need to posit any center of the psyche. In this situation we experience a fundamental shift of psychological perspectives – from an ego-centric monotheist one to a polycentric polytheist one. Once again, here Hilman and his archetypal approach develop Jung’s idea of the plurality of souls/images that compose the psyche/world and idea that we will find again described in other terms in Chapters 6, 8, and 16. Another essential difference, often discussed in these contributions between the East and the West, is the status and the position of the Ego. It seems that in the West and the East the Ego, as described and discussed in the pages that follow, is quite different. Yet, such differences may also produce projections and, therefore, faulty forms of dichotomic understanding: if in the East the Ego is different, the Westerner may think that there is no Ego in the East. Nevertheless, from the discussions that will follow, we will learn that this state of affairs is not at all true, as differences do not mean any yes/no, either/or approach. In Chapter 2 Lynlee Lyckberg discusses this issue. She quotes Mokusen Miyuki, who

Introduction 5 suggested in Buddhism and Psychology, this is an erroneous assumption and common error in Western thinking. From an Eastern perspective, Buddhism does not require a dissolution of the ego; rather, “the ego is strengthened in meditation, and what gets dissolved is ego-centricity. Now, when, in her discussion of the symbol of the mirror she writes: The underlying sensibility in Japan is simply that of impermanence, where the brief moment of existence framed by a unique and personal identity is conceptually nothing more than a mirage (mirror illusion) without substance, arising from the place of no-thing (emptiness) and returning to no-thing, symbolically represented by both the sacred mirror as a most auspicious symbol in Buddhism and by the Zen Enso circle. I find a very similar trace of such a description of the Enso circle in Bion’s concept of O, and when Lyckberg writes about the two conditions of nothingness and no-thingness, I, once again, recognize Bion’s reference to “nothing” and “nothing” as discussed in his Attention and Interpretation (1970). Also, Winnicott’s concept of the true self as a potential, implicit, innate space from which reality (and the Ego) flows into the material, relational and historical world flow, seems to me something like a Western version of an Eastern image. Furthermore, in her comparison between Daoist qualitative numbers to the Western quantitative numbers, Lyckberg herself rightly mentions Jung’s and M.L. von Franz’s adherence to Eastern thought. To this I may add that throughout Western history, its deep counter current (fundamentally Gnostic and Alchemical) always maintained a qualitative understanding of numbers. The shift from the qualitative numbers to the purely quantitative ones was a product of a historical process, which culminated with the querelle between Kepler and Fludd in the seventeenth century. If, as we know, Kepler’s position won and mathematics was since then thought more mathematice (“mathematically”), today it is hard not to see the qualitative aspect of numbers in quantum physics – for instance, the numbers associated with the spin of an elementary particle. Once again, it seems that the East and the West are contaminating each other in a wonderfully fruitful way. “Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures” is the title of Tsuyoshi Inomata’s Chapter 15, in which the author draws a history of nothingness, which, in the West wholly devoid of its symbolic pregnancy eventually turned into nihilism. Quoting W. Giegerich, the author writes: Paradoxically, it is the Western way of the soul that – with its process of consecutive negations finally leading to what has been crudely and summarily condensed in the term “nihilism” – in fact produced an “emptiness consciousness,” an “emptiness consciousness” as a real (i.e., inescapable) condition of the subject in real social reality and an objectively prevailing cultural mindset.

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The connection of the emptiness of the modern Western psyche with the sacred, creative void of the Eastern one may transform Western nihilism into “a precondition for the creation of a rich animated world in which diversity is tolerated, if attitudes towards it change from pessimistic and rejective to empathic and receptive.” In order for this to occur, a change should also take place within the Eastern – in this case the Japanese – psyche, as its empty center (Kawai, 1996) lacks a subject “with its own will and freedom.” This is something that, again quoting Giegerich, Inomata describes as “the Arctic vortex, a force of nature that swallows everything,” which may be a concurrent cause of the spreading of autism (and perhaps, I might add, the hikikomori condition, now present also in the West?) within the Japanese psyche. The image of the Enso is also discussed by Kojiro Miwa in Chapter 11. Referring to the theories of Jung and of the Zen philosopher Shinichi Hisamatsu, Miwa discusses the encounter between the Western Jung and the Eastern Hismatsu. His contribution deals with the fundamental component of silence and nonverbal communication within psychotherapy, such as the use of the Tree Test, or, in more general terms, the use of nonverbal approaches, such as art therapy or sandplay. Equating the Self with the “Buddha nature,” Miwa discusses the transformative, productive density of silence and of apparent void of nonverbal communication. The clinical meaning of the tree and the use of the Tree Test is also discussed in Chapter 12 by Himeka Matsushita. In both these chapters, the theme of compassion emerges. A theme thoroughly discussed, in comparative terms, also by Shoichi Kato in Chapter 10. Through two moving clinical cases, Kato highlights the fundamental importance of compassion. Once again referring to the transformative power of silence, Kato writes: in the depth of self-consuming emotions, a silent moment would arrive in which we could see the person so far recognized as the source of our misfortune in a new light, as a genuinely Other person. It is in this I – Thou relationship that Compassion would rise from our deep psyche to surround the two remotely separated individuals with silence. In Buddhist scriptures, compassion (in Mahayana Buddhism: /karun¸¯a/) is often coupled with sadness and friendship. Reading Kato’s chapter my mind went to Heinz Kohut’s contributions on empathy and to the fundamental nature of the analytical relationship in analytical psychology, which is indeed based on a sort of friendship between two human beings – analyst and patient – who try to integrate the emotional meaning of life and its challenging, sad, mournful aspects (Carta, 2013). Such a deep attitude of mutual understanding, the key to the Jungian psychological method, for which the analyst should “go where is the patient” and for which any real encounter implies a mutual transformation, is echoed in Ryutaro

Introduction 7 Nishi’s Chapter 17, in which he discusses “Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy of care and education in relation to Jungian psychology.” For Nishi, both Jung and Tsumori “emphasised the need to understand children’s inner world, without reducing it to the limited confines of past experiences.” In fact, both demonstrated how children’s expressions are always meaningful and should never be rejected or refused through a castrating form of education. These considerations show some important common features of Tsumori’s early childhood care and education (ECCE) method – based on play and imagination and a sustained relationship between children and practitioners – and play therapy, although the latter is conducted within the confines of a playroom. In Chapter 14 Evija Volfa Vestergaard explores “leadership styles in Japan (East Asia) and Latvia (which is on the boundary between East and West) as an important element in creating a sustainable future for humanity.” Analyzing the apparent overlapping of the mythological images of the dragon in Latvian and Chinese cultures, she suggests that in general, both the Japanese and Latvian psyches are characterized by a greater permeability between their conscious and unconscious layers, expressed in a heightened sense of embeddedness with their surroundings, and the multiplicity of perspectives held by their leaders. Using the language of myths, these leaders find ways to dance with the dragons rather than slaying them. They form a relationship with the surrounding natural environment and human-made worlds, rather than striving to separate and cut away one from the other. While, from a Western perspective, this permeability may be viewed as lacking a healthy ego, [she argues] that a sense of interconnectedness is beneficial in a world of expanding global interdependencies. For Vestergaard, the mythological beneficial kinship with dragons is connected with a life well-balanced with nature in agrarian Latvia and with the Yin/Yang opposites in the East. It describes an Ego development that resembles that of both the Latvian and the Eastern Egos. Quoting Akita Iwao (2017), Vestergaard describes the Ego’s relationship with the unconscious as a “dancing with the shadows,” instead of “integrating the shadow in the Ego.” Quite a compelling image, indeed. In Chapter 13, Hirofumi Kuroda also focuses her contribution on the peculiar nature of the relationship between subject and object and its representations in the East versus the West. She writes: In the Western individualistic perspective, the focus is on subject and object, and the one-to-one interaction between subject and object. There is a center point where the image of self/I resides, which is the ego. However, in the Eastern collectivistic perspective, the focus is on the context, the circumference, and the many-to-many interactions in foreground and background.

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In Chinese, the central field, in which the relationship between subject and object takes place, is expressed by the expression “心,” (heart, soul, and mind), which, in ancient times, was represented by the image “方寸/f ¯angcùn,” which literally means square inches. Through a clinical case with a psychotic patient Kuroda describes the progressive reintegration of the psychotic patient’s Ego, which took place along the development of recurrent images of the house imago: [From this case] we learn that the constellation of the house imago is an attempt for reintegration, which brings the individual back to “方寸/ fa¯ngcùn,” the heart and the Self. The creation of circumference provides a sense of being grounded without locating the center point. This is consistent with Jung’s statement that “the Eastern mind, however, has no difficulty in conceiving of a consciousness without an ego.” Because of this core difference, I would propose that the process and product of symbol formation (in Jungian’s term, the “constellation”) should be different between Western psyche and Eastern psyche. In Chapter 3, David Fisher discusses the “Implications for Japan’s maternal culture” of the meeting – indeed a clashing – of West and East. His starting point is Hayao Kawai’s description of the Japanese psyche as essentially based on a strong maternal principle and of the discussions that have arisen out of such an interpretation. He writes: If we take Kawai’s assertion at face value, how does that square with Japan’s very masculine Bushido and martial Imperial past? It seems that we have a very different thing, a radical restructuring of psychic energy that occurred rapidly, violently, and emerged from the extreme tension between two things of opposite polarity: in short, an enantiodromia. A valuable aspect of Fisher’s contribution is its historical perspective, which places the Japanese psyche within the flow of events that ultimately led Japan to the catastrophic defeat of World War II. Japan’s “unconditional surrender,” unbearably humiliating, caused an archetypal trauma which led to the enantiodromia of the Father principle into the Mother. The issue of the relationship between the Father and the Mother principles is also discussed by Elly Lin in Chapter 4. In her contribution, the author gives two clinical examples of the very deep divide between a male American patient (from the United States of America) and a female patient living in the United States but of Asian origin. She writes: In my experience, cultural differences, if ignored or interpreted in a narrow, personalistic frame, fall flat and meaningless at best; at worst, they are cause

Introduction 9 for misunderstandings and mishaps. The archetypal considerations, however, can expand the interpersonal dyad into a much larger and deeper context where differences become portals into a previously unknown psychic realm of richness and aliveness. This becomes particularly true since While, according to Neumann, the image of the Mother remains relatively constant across cultures, the image of the Father tends to vary from culture to culture. (Neumann, 1970) In the case of the Asian patient, the Father archetype and complex were structured along Confucian principles based on filial piety, family and social hierarchy, and shame. Using Edinger’s model of the Ego–Self axis, Elly Lin shows us how such an overly dominant, in this case negative “Confucian Father complex,” was hindering the patient’s development and individuation process. This was the opposite for the American man, for whom the weakness, if not absence, of the Father image was equally blocking his individuation for the opposite reason. In the case of this interesting contribution, as a Westerner my mind goes to such a pervasive issue of the historical evaporation of the Father that has taken place in the last 50 years. Yet, I also see that within the West there still exist quite many differences between, for instance, the Protestant and the Catholic ethics. This plural aspect of a shared phenomenon such as the crisis of the Father image (a crisis which today is slowly finding new avenues and potential symbolic solutions) shows us how important it is to place our psychology within a historical and (trans)cultural perspective. Such a perspective is wholly assumed by Andrew Samuels, who, in Chapter 9, discusses another extremely complex and quickly evolving issue of the intimate relationship between genders, i.e., between differences. He writes: The very idea of gender also has a hidden bridge-building function: it sits on a threshold half-way between the inner and outer worlds, and thus is already half-way out into the world of politics. On the one hand, gender is a private, secret, sacred, mysterious story that we tell ourselves and are told by others about who we are. But it is also a set of experiences deeply implicated in and irradiated by the political and socioeconomic realities of the outer world. The notion of gender, therefore, not only marries the inner and outer worlds, but actually calls into dispute the validity of the division. This perspective, which unites such apparently far realms of human life – gender intimacy and politics – has a truly invaluable epistemic significance, as it makes it possible to produce new metaphors to express the human complexity

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and therefore deal with fundamental questions such as those which Andrew Samuels discusses in his contribution: “Can men change? Are men powerful? Do men hate women?” A number of the chapters of this book deal with images, as the affect-laden image is considered in analytical psychology the building block of the psyche. The historical perspective on images is discussed by my colleague and coeditor Konoyu Nakamura, who, in Chapter 7, draws a short history of what today are known all over the world as manga. Mangas are symbolic manifestation of images that have often taken the form of monsters. Nakamura compares such images with Jung’s contact with the “Others,” the inhabitants of his (our) unconscious – the complexes and archetypal images that form our psychological universe. The Shinto Japanese description is that of a universe full of spirits – kami – everywhere. A very striking fact regarding these Japanese manga monsters is their enormous impact in the contemporary world, both in the East and in the West. Somehow, the Japanese and the Eastern psyche seems to be communicating something not just understandable but actually urgently needed by the Western psyche. It seems as if, after the war lost by Japan, the psyche of the winners – that of the West and most of all the American psyche – has eventually been conquered by the Japanese manga, some of which actually represent the long and difficult elaboration of the post-traumatic effect of the defeat (for a thorough discussion, see also Allison, 2006). The mythical-historical roots of such a universe full of soul is also described in Chapter 16 by Mayumi Furukawa, as she discusses the importance of the Ainu culture, which thrived for 10,000 years, for the Japanese psyche. Furukama writes: the Ainu had a worldview that the very essence of all human beings, all animate beings, including animals, and all inanimate beings had an eternal and immortal soul that was part of their very essence. The word “Ainu,” means human beings and “Kamuy,” deities. The Ainu believed that human beings had their unique afterlife and so as Kamuy, as divine, had the ability to circulate back and forth between their respective present life and afterlife. Kamuy for the Ainu, however, is not equal to God or Gods, the higher deity of many faiths. Kamuy is not an overarching “master” of human beings but rather on an equal footing with human beings. Nakagawa (1997), a linguist, stated that Kamuy should be close to “nature.” In other words, sparrows do not have their own divine nature. Every sparrow is Kamuy and every tree is also Kamuy. Furukama connects this “animistic” worldview with the dream phenomenon that Hayao Kawai (1995) called “interpenetration,” in which Kawai noted that the distinction between oneself and others was ambiguous in medieval Japanese tales. In fact, as Furukama writes:

Introduction 11 these tales portrayed a state of mind where realities and dreams, and life and death, could freely communicate with each other. [Kawai] continued, “The remarkable synchronicity of events in dreams, this world, and the land of death was not considered unusual.” As I have already noted, this deep layer of an Eastern culture such as Japan not only is expressed through literature (for instance Murakami) or cinema (Miyazaki) but, along with the Mangas discussed in Chapter 6 by Konoyu Nakamura, seems to act as a powerful compensative symbolic force for the Western psyche, as the immense success of these Japanese forms of art have literally conquered the contemporary Western psyche. The Shinto view of the world as a wholly animate reality is somehow similar to the Italian Saint Francis, whose story of conversion is discussed in Chapter 8 by Jun Kitayama. It is impossible to underestimate the stature of Francis of Assisi, who anticipated the second millennium after Christ to come (which marked the end of the Age of Aries and the beginning of the Age of Pisces). The dawn of the second millennium AD marked the inversion of the vertical orientation of the Spirit – for which God was far and alien to the material world and nature – therefore spiritualizing what is horizontal – this natural, physical world.2 As I wrote, it is of course impossible to summarize the complexity of the figure of Saint Francis, yet, within this book it is interesting to notice how much some of fundamental views of the Japanese Shinto religion, for which everything is alive and full of soul, was one of the key factors that, through St. Francis’ re-sacralization of nature, radically transformed the Western psyche of the Middle Ages into the modern one. Today, it seems that this aeonic movement has exhausted its path and, while the Age of Pisces enters in the Age of Aquarius, the spirit that had to animate matter in the West seems to have wholly drowned into materialism.3 In Chapter 7, Adelina Wei Kwan Wong formulates the hypothesis that Chinese hieroglyphs are a stylized form of archetypal pattern, similar to the archetypal themes of the myths and fairy tales. Following this interesting hypothesis, she carried out two clinical researches using clinical expressive materials, sand pictures and drawings, created by patients who are well versed in Chinese written characters. The therapeutic modes for the patients with early-life traumas often involve non-verbal expression and imagination like body movement, imagery painting, or Sandplay with 3D images on the sand (Manuhin 1992, Bradway 1997, Klaff 2003, Malchiodi 2014). All these are means for the patients to access the instinctual emotions of their “wounded inner child,” to create images embodying the emotions, and to be acknowledged by the consciousness. In conclusion, I hope that these collections of writings, so rich in contents and comparisons, may interest and stimulate the readers as an incentive for further discussions on such fundamental issues that involve the potential totality of the

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psyche, embedded, as it is, within the symbolic, cultural world and its historical development.

Notes 1 This implies the risk to project what does not belong to our identity onto the Other. Here, as a Westerner, an important reference is Edward Saïd’s Orientalism (1978). 2 The astrological sign of Pisces is composed of one horizontal fish and one vertical. 3 Yet, at the same time, science has discovered energy in matter, and that matter itself, which until the late nineteenth century seemed most obvious, is actually the true mystery to be unveiled. This seems to me something like the emerging of the fundamental quest of alchemy through science.

References Allison, A. (2006). Millennial Monsters – Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination. Oakland: University of California Press. Bion, R.R. (1970). Attention and Interpretation. London: Routledge. Carta, S. (2013). Beyond Oedipus. In Cavalli, A., Haekins L., and Stevns, M. (eds.), Transformation: Jung’s Legacy and Contemporary Clinical Practice. London: Routledge. Jung, C.G. (1969). Psychological Commentary on the Tibetan Book of the Dead. CW, vol. 11. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1935/1953. Jung, C.G. (1989). Memories, Dreams, Reflections. New York: Vintage Books. Kawai, H. (1995). Myths and Fairy Tales in Japan. Einsiedeln: Daimon Verlag. Kawai, H. (1996). Buddhism and the Art of Psychotherapy. College Station: Texas A&M University Press. Saïd, E. (1978). Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books.

Part 1

East and West

1

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? Exploring ego consciousness in the Western and the Japanese psyche Megumi Yama

Introduction To my great honor, I was given the opportunity to give a keynote speech at the IAJS Regional Conference held in Japan in November 2019. I was especially pleased with the offer because the theme of this conference was “East and West: encountering difference,” a topic which has been especially important to me since childhood. For many years, I have been interested in ego consciousness and the differences in the ways in which the subject is established in the Japanese and Western psyches. These interests come from two areas of personal experience: living in both the East and the West, and my practice of psychotherapy. I have been exploring this theme with an interdisciplinary approach using my knowledge of literature, art, linguistics, and clinical materials. Especially for the last decade, I have been dedicated to presenting papers at the international conferences and writing papers in international journals and chapters in English to convey my idea from Japan. In this chapter, I would like to introduce some of my previous studies. First, I will present the essential differences between ego consciousness in the Western and the Japanese psyches. Second, I will refer to what Jung experienced during his inner journey from the West to the East. Here, I would like to add that my intention is not to exaggerate cultural differences but to show that living between two psyches that are fundamentally different in their structure may be, while a harsh experience, a path to an “individuation process.” In this rapidly globalizing age, it may be more appropriate to use the terms Type-A Psyche and Type-B Psyche instead of referring to the psyches as Western and Japanese/Eastern. I will come back to this point later.

Globalization and COVID-19 Before going any further, I would like to refer to two enormous social phenomena with worldwide influence: globalization and COVID-19. The latter, a devastating coronavirus has threatened the lives and livelihoods of people all over the world since the end of 2019. Despite continued advances in medicine humanity finds itself in the midst of a pandemic and, under the fear of infection, has no choice but to self-isolate under the slogan “Stay Home.” I am writing these

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words in April 2020, as chapter. Who would have imagined that the whole world would fall into such a sudden predicament several months after last year’s conference? When I was asked to submit a title for my speech, I intuitively decided upon “How can we survive in this Globalized Age?” as I believed that “globalization” was the most defining feature of our contemporary society. I added the subtitle of “Exploring ego consciousness in the Western and the Japanese Psyche” to make my orientation clear. Whenever this pandemic recedes, it is certain that our world will be reconstructed in a various meaning. Perhaps it will be necessary for us to reconsider the meaning of globalization. In this age of rapid globalization, especially since the end of the Cold War, an increasing number of people from diverse background have had opportunities to encounter different cultures and languages, sometimes out of interest and sometimes out of necessity. Owing to the spread of the Internet, though there is an inevitable difference in the language used online, we do not need to be as conscious of the existence of borders between countries as we were in the past. We can all share the same information, both visually and aurally, from all over the world, almost simultaneously. Especially, living in the Far East, I have enjoyed great benefits from such convenience. However, on the other hand, I have also considered it problematic that we are able to step into other cultures too easily, without being conscious of what is happening deep in our psyche. It is also true that globalization has brought with it a raft of serious social and economic problems. The novel coronavirus crossed national borders quickly and secretly, aided by the human movement of globalization. When communicating with people living in different parts of the world via zoom, skype, etc., you can see that people everywhere are simultaneously experiencing the fear of infection and the stress of self-isolation. Such experiences, mediated by the latest technology, make us feel that we are indeed all living on one planet. On the other hand, the destructive power of COVID-19 ironically prohibits or limits the movement of people between countries and also requires that we all stay separated from each other. This might represent the ultimate expression of “anti-globalization” – staying in one’s own country. I would argue that we are now forced to experience the “shadow” of globalization, which has suddenly invaded our daily lives in a way none of us expected. It might even be possible to say that the COVID-19 could be regarded as a message from the unconscious, an alert warning us to stay within ourselves. It is almost redundant to say that globalization has brought about a great many economic efficiencies and brought us many advantages. However, I am afraid that at the same time, humanity has been ignoring a certain kind of “pain” which is supposed to occur within our psyche. Perhaps it would be relatively easy to understand on a practical level that living in between different cultures entails “pain”; however, if one looks deeper and deeper into one’s psyche, we may notice some more serious psychological risk occurring there. But I would like to argue that we should not necessarily regard it as something negative as it may have the possibility to lead us to the individuation process. In a previous paper (Yama, 2020), exploring the status of one destined to live between

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? 17 different cultures, I argued that the indeterminate state between the determinate culture and another is chaotic and uncertain, a space which may possibly lead to the world of death. I will refer to it later while referring to Jung’s life. In fact, many of us are now forced to face “death,” as we daily deal with the threat of a destructive disease, not only symbolically but on a very real plane.

The West and the East Now, I would like to turn to my main topic, that is, the West and the East. In this era of rapid globalization, it is sometimes heard that it may be doubtful that the concepts of “the West” and “the East” are as applicable as they were in the past. However, I would like to posit that however borderless our globe seems to be at a superficial level, if we go down deep to the roots, we can see a fundamental difference in the structure of each culture’s psyche. This is perhaps because they were established on a basis of their own unique psychological histories and backgrounds that should not be ignored. I would like to start by referring to Jung’s definition of the ego in Aion, which reads, “It (the ego) forms, . . . the center of the field of consciousness; and, in so far as this comprises the empirical personality, the ego is the subject of all personal acts of consciousness” (Jung, 1951, p. 1). However, as the first Japanese Jungian analyst Hayao Kawai (1976) points out, this does not necessarily apply to the Japanese psyche. Figure 1.1 is an illuminating model proposed by Kawai (1976), which illustrates the difference between the structures of the Japanese and Western psyches. It shows that in the Japanese psyche, the boundary between consciousness and unconsciousness is much vaguer than in that of Westerners. Kawai (1976) adds that in the Japanese psyche, the structure of the consciousness is

Figure 1.1 Two models of Japanese consciousness and Westerner’s consciousness according to Hayao Kawai

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formed with the Self as the center, which is in the unconscious. It is even doubtful whether it really has a center. As it was long before the current age of globalization when Kawai proposed this model, criticism may arise as to whether it still applies today. My intention here is not to regard either of them as superior or inferior but to understand them as two models that show fundamental difference in the structure of the psyche. As I have mentioned earlier, someday a time may come when it is appropriate to talk about “Type-A Psyche and Type-B Psyche” instead; however, I will refer to them as the Western Psyche and Japanese Psyche as the standard nomenclature in this chapter.

Non-fixed multiple perspectives in the Japanese psyche 1 Hints from the traditional Japanese arts Next, I would like to present some characteristics of the Japanese psyche, through mainly introducing some of my previous studies (Yama, 2013, 2018). First, I would like to explore some characteristics of the traditional Japanese arts in a broader sense, and second, I will give a rereading of the oldest Japanese myth to explore the ways in which the ego emerges in the Japanese psyche. In general, it is considered that the worldview of the creator of any art or design is reflected in their work. My first attempt is to explore the Japanese psyche’s expression in traditional Japanese arts, through analysis of the creator’s vision and how they experience the world.1 Here I would like to give some examples from several traditional Japanese artworks.2 The first is Rakuchu Rakugai-zu (Views in and around the City of Kyoto), a series of genre screen paintings dating from the 16th through 19th centuries. These works depict streetscapes of inner and suburban Kyoto from an overhead viewpoint, painted on folding screens with several panels. These artworks were very popular at the time, and about hundred remain today. As the focus of the painting zooms onto smaller objects, such as the buildings and the people, we come to realize that scenes of everyday life in the city are clearly illustrated in vivid detail. It is remarkable but true that some of these examples contain as many as two thousand five hundred delicately drawn individuals. The Japanese art historian Shuji Takashina (2011) mentions, “the painter does not stay at one point in the air but appears to be looking down while moving freely over Kyoto” (p. 11). A similar point is made by the art critic Teiji Yoshimura (1967), where he describes the painter as flying low over the city, changing their perspective one after another as necessary. In this way, the artist seems to have been able to both depict architectural detail quite accurately and at the same time show Kyotoites as they go about their busy lives. Thus, these paintings might be said not to have one specific center but multiple perspectives. To the reference above as to the movement of perspectives, the Japanese scholar of comparative culture Nobukazu Niigata (2007) adds that traditional Japanesestyle painters never paint shadow because if they do the perspective of the painter

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? 19 would be fixed at one specific position. The question might be asked, then, from where does this rejection of fixed perspective come? In answer to this question, Niigata (2007) states that appreciating landscape paintings does not mean only looking at the painting from the outside but to enter it and experience the space. As the viewer is drawn into each section of the painting in a kind of zoom effect, it feels as if they are involved in the scene and walking around the city along with the people depicted in the painting. In this space, we can experience the passing of time and almost feel the atmosphere on our skin. In fact, as the French cultural geographer Augustin Berque (1990) has noted, this characteristic applies to Japanese arts in a broader sense, such as gardens. The theory behind this is also that the Japanese ego develops differently from the way it does in the West, although Japanese individuals have certainly been affected by the modern Western ego.

2 Hints from the Japanese traditional garden For my second example, I would like to compare an emblematic one of Japan with a typical Western garden, both completed in the 17th century. The latter example is the Garden of the Palace of Versailles, which is designed in such a way that the garden’s entire panorama is visible from a single fixed point outside of the garden. As the former example, I would like to describe the garden of the Katsura Imperial Villa in Kyoto, which is regarded as one of the most important large-scale cultural treasures in Japan. The garden in the villa is specifically designed so that the viewers can enjoy constantly changing views as they make their way through the various distinct areas in the garden. The history of the garden in Japan is so long that we can find descriptions of it even in the Kojiki (lit. Records of Ancient Matters) and Nihon-shoki (lit. The Chronicle of Japan) in the 8th century. Originally, the design of Japanese gardens was based on those of China, but by the Edo era (1603–1868), as Japan was adopting a policy of national isolation, gradually Japanese gardens begin to take on a unique style. The garden in Katsura Imperial Villa features another interesting device which clearly embodies a characteristic of Japanese culture. Soon after passing through the garden entrance, visitors can see a small man-made peninsula extending into the garden’s main pond. On the end of this bank, a pine tree has been planted to deliberately block the panoramic view of the garden. It is positioned here not to hide the entire view but to hint at the existence of the beautiful landscape behind, by making it only partially visible through the branches of the pine. Taking in the entire panorama of the garden from a single fixed point does not seem to be a good way to enjoy the garden. It seems that they value the visitor’s hands-on experience of entering into the garden and enjoying the constantly changing views by moving themselves around the space in the garden. As we have seen,3 due to the multiplicity of perspectives in Japanese gardens and paintings, the visitor is able successively enjoy a number of unfolding vistas, which keeps us in a constantly evolving movement.

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3 The artists’ point of view before and after the advent of linear perspective Next, I would like to refer to the difference of the artist’s perspective between before and after the development of the technique of linear perspective. Romanyshyn (1989) provided a fascinating comparison between two illustrations of the city of Florence: one before and other is after the technique of linear perspective was developed, where there is an objective with a definite single viewpoint. On the contrary, the earlier painting is remarkable for its sense of clutter and confusion that is characterized by a number of perspectives. Our eyes cannot find any one fixed point from which to view the city, which means that it is exceedingly difficult to find the actual center. Consequently and naturally, our eyes are forced to rove through the cityscape. As we have seen above, one of the most important characteristics of traditional Japanese art is that it does not utilize linear perspective in the way that postRenaissance Western art does. Instead, it employs multiple perspectives and, what is more, there is a definite suggestion of movement, too. It is considered that the development of a linear perspective in art is related to the establishment of the modern Western ego consciousness, which brought about a definite distinction between “I” as a subject and “I” as an object.

Reading the Japanese creation myth and the emergence of ego My second objective in this chapter is to explore the way that the ego emerges in the Japanese psyche by returning to the narrative embedded in the oldest layer of Japanese culture. I would like to do this through explication of Japan’s earliest myth, the Kojiki (712/1995) especially the opening section, which reads as an extended story of preconscious images. For details, please refer to my previous paper, Yama (2013). It is well known that Neumann (1933/1949) read myth from the standpoint of the development of consciousness and von Franz (1995/2001) discussed this motif from various examples, including Japanese myths. According to von Franz, “stories which are supposed to describe the origin of the real world are completely intertwined with factors which we would rather call ‘stories of the preconscious process about the origin of human consciousness” (1995, p. 11). Kojiki consists of two parts: entitled the Deity (Kami) Age and the Earthly Sovereigns. The former is made up of an extended narrative containing exhaustive lists of godheads or primeval powers and ends with the beginning of what we call “history,” when the first earthly emperor appears. The deities’ descent is prolonged and made up of many stages. According to von Franz (1995), the first deities are completely vague and mist-like in appearance, and with each stage, the figure “becomes” more specific. This emergence is simultaneous with a process whereby vague images emerging from chaos gradually develop a certain orientation and finally appear in some kind of definite form. The earliest sections of

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? 21 the Kojiki is as follows: in the Plain of High Heaven, three single deities just “became” (=came into being) one by one and then disappeared. Next, two more deities “became” did the same. These five deities above are called separate heavenly deities. Then Seven generations of the age of the deities follows: first two deities are single, then four pairs of deities follow one after another, and finally, as the seventh, the first parents, Izanagi and Izanami (literally meaning “Male-whoinvites” and “Female-who-invites”) appear. The story that prefaces the birth of Izagagi and Izanami can be linked with the preconscious process before the emergence of the ego and before a subject is established in the psyche. These deities just “become” one by one and then disappear. Deities are neither created nor produced but simply “become,” one after another, within an expanse of apparent nothingness. What I would like to examine next is the uniqueness of the deities’ generation within the cosmogony of the Kojiki. According to Masao Maruyama (2006), a Japanese scholar of the history of thought, there are three different patterns of generation in cosmogony. Each of these has a basic verb: create, produce, and become. The first two are more familiar to Westerners than the verb become. When Japanese myths use this word, they are describing something which has manifested itself through the effect of immanent spiritual power. Therefore, when they use this term, it implies that there is the potential for generation within the deity itself and also that there must be some energy to stimulate and encourage the process. At some place, the powers from within and without cooperate to make manifest a physical form. The entire process of “becoming” goes on invisibly. Finally, with the seventh generation, the first parents “became.” An extraordinary amount of time passes from the beginning of the myth until the first parents who create the world appear for the first time. Abstract deities gradually transform into deities with concrete bodies, moving from the invisible to the visible, from intangible to tangible, from the abstract to the concrete. In contrast, the gods of Greek mythology are more clearly defined and developed from their outset. This gradual emergence of consciousness can be contrasted with Western myths of origin that are more clear and specific. I would like to add some explanation about the Japanese verb for “become”: naru. Looking at the way the word is used may reveal certain attributes of Japanese language and culture. In an example provided by the linguist Takehiro Kanaya (2010), when Japanese couples send out wedding invitations, they use the phrase kekkon suru koto ni narimashita, that is, (it) became (the state) that (we) (will) marry. On the contrary, in Western countries, one would say, “We decided to get married” or “We will get married,” with a clearly stated intention or will of the subject. On the other hand, the preferred expression in Japanese hints that the situation of marriage has occurred naturally or spontaneously. It is often remarked that, in the Japanese language, the identity of the subject and one’s will or intention are both rarely expressed explicitly. In general, it would seem that Japanese are not overly concerned about clarification of the subject, and there is a tendency to guess at intended meanings according to shared context. Perhaps this is a linguistic expression of the lesser value attributed to individuality in

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Japanese culture compared to the West. Returning to the Japanese creation myth, we can see that this idea of creator-less “becoming” implies that the subjects are part of a single emerging whole. Next, I would like to draw a parallel between the idea of deities “becoming” and disappearing and the ways in which successive areas of the gardens at the Katsura Imperial Villa reveal themselves. It seems that as visitors to the garden space, we are to experience multiple fragmented perspectives as if they are emerging one after another in the garden. But if we take the garden as a whole, these scenes are not completely fragmental, but each can be regarded as part of an emerging whole. Suppose that a whole garden is the Self, as defined by Jung. The experience of walking through the garden is thus neatly analogous to the circumambulation of the Self. This is a distinct parallel when strolling in the gardens of Katsura Imperial Villa, experiencing multiple perspectives of one’s surroundings.

Jung’s life: encounter with the dead and encounter with “the East” Here I would like to refer to Jung’s life. I explored Jung’s inner journey from the viewpoint of what was taking place in his symbolical movement from the West to the East during the time of uncertainty after the parting with Freud. Thanks to the publication of The Red Book in 2009 and Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1961/1989), we can see that he had the experience of descending into the depth, where he held dialogues with the dead.4 In Yama (2019), I referred to Septem Sermones ad Mortuos (Jung, 2009) and tried to understand the nothingness, or Pleroma, in the first sermon within the Eastern philosophy. I need to add that I do not mean that Jung understood the East in the way that Easterners do. I would argue, following Hayao Kawai (1978), that Jung tried to “live” the conflicts between the West and the East very consciously without losing his identity as a Westerner. It is a well-known anecdote that during a period of inner uncertainty, Jung drew many mandala-like pictures without actually knowing what they were. It was only when he received the manuscript of the Taoist-alchemical treatise entitled The Secret of the Golden Flower from Richard Wilhelm in 1928 that he realized that his drawings were actually mandala and through this, received confirmation of his theories about the Self. At the same time, Jung also realized that he had encountered “the East” within himself, as he was descending into the depths of his own psyche. I would like to add the fact that Jung was already interested in the I Ching in 1920, long before he met Wilhelm. In a lecture titled “In Memory of Richard Wilhelm” (1931) Jung laid out his thoughts on this work. The science of the I Ching is not based on the causality principle, but on a principle . . . which I have tentatively called the synchronistic principle. My occupation with the psychology of unconscious process long ago necessitated my looking about for another principle of explanation, because the

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? 23 causality principle seemed to me inadequate to explain certain remarkable phenomena of the psychology of the unconscious. (p. 142) The principle of causality is based on a body of knowledge that is logically selfconsistent from the perspective of ego. The I Ching, however, is considered to be based on a perspective that looks at the whole simultaneously from the standpoint of the Self. As Jung seems to have reached this standpoint, I would argue that he was able to understand “the East” in an essential sense. Jung’s journey was not merely in a horizontal direction from the West to the East, but an extended journey, descending in a vertical direction to the realm of the dead. Although in this globalized age it may sound like a simple feat of travel, crossing the boundary between the West and the East as Jung had experienced is equivalent to traversing a chaotic psychotic realm. This is all the more interesting because Jung had little intention of doing so. He progressed in this way as if he were led by something within his psyche. Wilhelm was deeply influenced or more appropriate to say assimilated by Chinese culture. He left great achievements in sinology including the translation of and commentary on, the I Ching. As Jung points out, Wilhelm’s transformation entailed great sacrifice of his comparatively young death from illness. Jung (1931) admits that, “To Wilhelm, these changes certainly meant not only a shifting of intellectual standpoint, but also an essential rearrangement of the component of his personality” (p. 150).

Personal experience and conclusions Lastly, I would like to briefly touch on my personal experience. When I was 13 years old, my father’s work took our family to America. As it was quite long before the current wave of globalization, what I experienced then was very distinct differences between two cultures – American and Japanese. Jung moved from West to East within his psyche; on the contrary, I experienced movement in the opposite direction in the real, physical sense. As I was in the delicate age of early adolescence, it seems that I first experienced cultural difference directly at a physical level. When I set foot on American soil for the first time, I was taken by a tremendous dizziness, as if the earth was inclining and rotating very slowly. This peculiar sensation stayed with me for more than a week. As our life in America started, I was at first embarrassed by the American clear-cut and rational ways of thinking and speaking, and I was surprised to see that even children were treated as independent individuals. However, over time I became rather well adapted to this new environment. Although Japan was my native culture, returning to it after only 15 months was quite difficult and my time in the United States has remained a crucial and influential experience within me ever since. I became rather well-readapted to the environment over time, but what was far more difficult was learning how to live with both a Japanese-psyche and a Western psyche

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(which, as already mentioned, are two very different natures). This dichotomy has become a lifelong topic of personal contemplation. After living in the United Kingdom for a year on sabbatical in 2008 and 2009, I have moved extensively from Japan to Europe, America, and Australia over the past ten years. While going back and forth between Japan and these Western countries, I tried to sense what was happening in my psyche as much as possible. Finally, I come to feel that fate appears to have given me the role of two bridge pillars which carry the bridge between East and West. Nowadays, it seems inevitable that we all must grapple with the topic of how to survive as an individual beyond such differences as nationality, race, religion, and language. I believe that each of us will need to tackle with the theme of integrating “the West” and “the East” (or alternately the “Type-A psyche” and “Type-B psyche”) in our psyche in our own way. No matter how world is reshaped after the COVID-19 pandemic, it’s my view that not only must each of us pay attention to salient differences but also that we should descend to the depth of the psyche, where we will find no boundaries between these differences. When we consider globalization from a new perspective, I hope that the theme of how each of us try to live with two different types of psyches – the Type-A psyche and Type-B psyche – within ourselves will give us some meaningful suggestions which may possibly lead to deeper intercultural understanding in an essential sense.

Notes 1 A part of this study was originally presented at the Annual Conference of the International Association for the Study of Dreams in 2013. 2 As I cannot give many examples due to the limitation of the space, please refer to Yama (2018) for details. 3 Please refer to Yama (2018) for other examples. 4 For details, please refer to my paper (Yama, 2019, 2020), where I argued that indeterminate state between the determinate culture and the other is chaotic and uncertain, a space which may possibly lead to the world of death.

References Berque, A. (1990). Nihon no Fukei Seiou no Keikan [Japanese Scenery and the Western Vista], trans. Shinoda, K. Tokyo: Kodan-sha. Jung, C.G. (1931). ‘Appendix: In Memory of Richard Wilhelm’, in The Secret of the Golden Flower: A Chinese Book of Life. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co. Jung, C.G. (1951). Aion. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1959, originally published in 1951, 1. Jung, C.G. (1961/1989). Memories, Dreams, Reflections. London: Fontana Press. Jung, C.G. (2009). The Red Book: Liber Novus, ed. Shamdasani, S. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Kanaya, T. (2010). Nihongo wa Keigo ga atte Shugo ga nai [Honorific But No Subject in Japanese Language]. Tokyo: Kodan-sha. Kawai, H. (1976). Boseishaki Nihon no Byori [Psychology of Japan’s Maternal Society]. Tokyo: Chuokoron-sha.

How can we survive in this Globalized Age? 25 Kawai, H. (1978). Yungu no shougai [Jung’s Life]. Tokyo: Daisanbunmei-sha. Maruyama, M. (2006). Chusei to Hangyaku [Loyalty and Treason], 7th ed. Tokyo: Chikuma-shobo. Neumann, E. (1933/1939). The Origin and History of Consciousness. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Niigata, N. (2007). Nihonjin no “Watashi” o motomete [Seeking the Japanese “Me”]. Tokyo: Shinyo-sha. Romanyshyn, D.L. (1989). Technology as Symptom & Dream. London and New Yok: Routledge. Takashina, S. (2011). ‘The Japanese Sense of Beauty’, in Nihon Bijutsu o miru me: higashi to nishi no deai [Viewing Japanese Art: Encounters between the East and West]. Tokyo: Iwanami-shoten, originally published in 1983, 11. Takeda, Y. (ed.). (1995). Kojiki. Tokyo: Kadokawa-shoten. Von Franz, M.L. (1995/2001). Creation Myth. Boston, MA: Shambala Publications. Yama, M. (2013). ‘Ego Consciousness in the Japanese Psyche: Culture, Myth and Disaster’, Journal of Analytical Psychology 58, 52–72. Yama, M. (2018). ‘Non-fixed Multiple Perspectives in the Japanese Psyche: Traditional Japanese Art, Dream and Myth’, in Kuzmicki, A. and Błocian, I. (eds.), Contemporary Influences of C.G. Jung’s Thought, Contemporary Psychoanalytic Studies, Volume 24. Leiden: Brill, 141–157. Yama, M. (2019). ‘Chapter 13 The Red Book: A Journey from West to East via the Realm of the Dead’, in Murray, S. and Arzt, T. (eds.), Jung’s Red Book for Our Time: Searching for Soul under Postmodern Conditions. Asheville: Chiron Publications, 273–290. Yama, M. (2020). ‘Descending into the Indeterminate State Between the Determinate: Recovering a Connection with the Dead’, International Journal of Jungian Studies 12(1), 109–128. Yoshimura, T. (1967). Nihonbi no tokushitsu [The Essence of Japanese Aesthetics]. Tokyo: Kashima-shupppankai.

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Cultural reflection in Eastern and Western tales of the mirror Lynlee Lyckberg

Introduction Carl Jung’s awareness of the psychological truths foundational to culture led him to suggest that the fundamental differences between East and West can be found in the extraverted “style” or psychological point of view of the West and an introverted one in the East. In the East “mind” is a cosmic factor, the very essence of existence and something metaphysical where a connection exists between each individual and a Universal Mind, while in the West, “mind” is viewed as a psychic function. Here, man is no longer understood as the microcosm, acting on behalf of the ancestors in an animated cosmos where all things are endowed with a living, healing, magical power through which humanity and psyche mutually interact. Instead, the West sees Eastern animism as a mere projection and knows mind as the mental functioning of the psyche that forms the essential condition of cognition and cognitive existence in the world. These fundamental differences between East and West can be understood through an examination of distinct cultural fairy tales that focus upon the image of the “mirror.” The tale of The Mirror and the Bell sheds insight on the importance of the ancestral tradition and its connection to soul in the East while Snow White reveals the importance of youthful beauty and “the new” in the West. A third mirror tale Beyond the Looking Glass synthesizes Eastern and Western cultural ideals in a profound way. These “mirror tales” offer potential insight into the unconscious factors that shape a culture’s perspectives and behavior.

Presence of the ancestors The past and the future simultaneously live through us. They manifest as the unfolding of ancestral ideas present in the here and now, even if and when we are unaware of this. In the West, the ancestors and the wisdom of the elders are often forgotten, where traditions fall away to make room for the ever-emergent “new,” while in the East, the ancestral realm is still deeply alive in Shinto shrines and sacred places, in animals and natural disasters, in every single aspect of aliveness, and the unfolding of events on a collective basis. Eastern culture, and particularly Japanese culture, is intrinsically imbued with an inner awareness of this subtle aspect of life.

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This place of inner awareness is a realm where the invisible and visible worlds meet; where each rock, stone, tree, and animal is a living spirit of the ancestors who have returned as a transformed and superior power known as Kami. This profound inner awareness is perceived as an essential “emptiness at the core,” an emptiness that contains the fullness of everything. Not fully translatable, this “emptiness at the core” is known as Kokoro and can be described in Western terms as a singular psycho-somatic unity of heart, mind, and spirit; perhaps best understood as the “heart-mind” or “permeating spirit” of all things. The fundamental understanding of life in the East is that the inner experience of the self at the core is polyvalent and impermanent rather than singular and substantial. Thus, an Eastern sense of inner awareness is described as “an aggregate or composite of inconceivable complexity, the concentrated sum of the creative thinking of previous lives beyond all reckoning” where it is both supra-individual (beyond the individual) and inheritable as a collection of impression that are taken on by the next succeeding individual or generation in the on-going chain of life (Hearn, 2011, p. 130). The concretized concept of “self ” known as the individual Ego that Western culture cherishes and cultivates is consciously relinquished (but not dissolved) in favor of an expanded awareness of self as the entire universe of all beings, past and present, where each is but a passing emanation like a cloud that exists in a brief moment of time. A common misnomer in the West is that the ego must be dissolved from an Eastern perspective, but as Mokusen Miyuki (1987) suggested in Buddhism and Psychology, this is an erroneous assumption and common error in Western thinking. From an Eastern perspective, Buddhism does not require a dissolution of the ego, rather, “the ego is strengthened in meditation, and what gets dissolved is ego-centricity” (p. V) or the focus on the individualized self to the detriment of all else. The underlying sensibility in Japan is simply that of impermanence, where the brief moment of existence framed by a unique and personal identity is conceptually nothing more than a mirage (mirror illusion) without substance, arising from the place of no-thing (emptiness) and returning to no-thing, symbolically represented by both the sacred mirror as a most auspicious symbol in Buddhism and by the Zen Enso circle. This place of emptiness is what Japanese philosopher Kitaro Nishida (1987) referred to as a locus (basho) or field where cosmic energies (qualities and intensities) come together in a spontaneous co-arising born of imminent vibration. Kitaro described an awareness of this field of emptiness as an intuitive experience, where “Intuition is a consciousness of unbroken progression, of reality just as it is, wherein subject and object are not as yet divided and that which knows and that which is known are one.” He further articulated that the phenomenon of reflection, symbolized by the mirror, “is a consciousness which, standing outside of this progression, turns around and views it” (p. 3).

Mirror tales from East and West In the most well-known Western tale of the mirror Snow White, the mirror serves as a truth telling device that purportedly reflects “true” beauty. This beauty is

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revealed and most often understood as youthfulness primarily associated with external and transient qualities. This tale appears to offer less introspection (and thus less cultural inward reflection) than do the tales of the East. In Snow White, the older woman as queen or mean/ugly stepmother is generally depicted as evil, and from a broader cultural perspective, aging is not particularly valued in the West. The queen owns a magical mirror that offers her a genuine assessment of her external beauty-based value every day, and one day when the queen asks the mirror “Looking glass upon the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” it responds that beautiful young Snow White has replaced her as the fairest in the land. The shift from aging beauty to fresh and new beauty sends the queen into a jealous rage that initiates a desire to destroy Snow White. The surface appearance of external beauty becomes the cultural measure of value here, and because the mirror tells the queen that Snow White is the most beautiful being in the land, the collective interpretation unconsciously becomes that of “youthful beauty” and “the new” holding the most value. There is no value in aging, no value in the gifts and beliefs that the ancestors lived; there is only the celebration of the new believed to have arisen independently from the past. This creates a deep disconnect in the psyche, an unbridgeable chasm between the old and the new, and instead of generations remaining connected and supportive to one another, we find that each disregards and wants to annihilate the other, pointing the finger of blame at the other regarding the ills of the world. In stark contrast, the import of the ancestors as Kami (the ancestral gods) is expressed as a central theme in many Japanese folk legends, reflecting the role and deep respect that the Kami are still given in Japanese culture. One such ancestral tale is Mugen-Kane, or Bell of Mugen, which begins eight centuries ago with the priests of Mugenyama (in the province of Totomi) asking the women of the parish to donate their bronze handheld mirrors (Kagami) for the forging of a big bronze temple bell. Now to give up one’s mirror in Japanese culture is no small matter, because the mirror symbolizes many things, including the belief that it contains the souls of all of the ancestral mothers who have come before. The mirror is said to be the soul of a woman, and to lose one’s mirror is to lose one’s connection with the ancestors along with one’s own heritage. In the tale of Mugen Kane, when the young woman reluctantly gives up her mirror to the bell maker, she immediately regrets doing so after learning the truth of the mirror’s importance as the container of her soul. Because her regret and attachment to the mirror is so strong, the mirror will not melt in the forge. Word soon gets around about the mirror not melting, and everyone knows to whom the mirror belongs. The young woman is so full of shame about her “selfish nature” that she drowns herself after writing a farewell letter stating that whomever breaks the bell by ringing it will inherit a fortune given by her ghost (her Kami). Jung (1948/1969) described the power or energy retained in personal objects as a type of magical potency known as mana, regarded as both an objective force and a subjective state of intensity. For Jung, this “energy is, to be sure, terrible (under certain

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circumstances) and it is mysterious and incomprehensible; but it is so because it is vastly powerful” (p. 64, pt. IV, para. 126). Jung further asserted that mana was “not a concept but a representation based on the perception of a ‘phenomenal’ relationship. . . . It is the essence of Levy-Bruhl’s participation mystique” (p. 65, pt. IV, para. 127). Thus, the woman’s spirit (or “soul” potency) remains in the mirror even after the mirror no longer belongs to her. The mirror is sacred to both the Shinto and Buddhist traditions of Japan. It is one of three sacred objects in Shinto symbolizing the sun goddess Amaterasu Omikami, the great creator divinity who illuminates heaven. She is the most important deity of the Shinto religion and is the ruler of Takama no Hara, the High Celestial Plain where the Kami reside. As part of the Imperial Regalia, the mirror, along with the celestial sword and the curved jewel, is believed to be handed down through the line of emperors as proof of divine descent. The mirror, always held in the highest regard, symbolizes light and hope just as Amaterasu faithfully returns every morning. In all Shinto shrines, Amaterasu is present in the form of a mirror (Shintai), and all who enter the shrine bow before this mirror form of Amaterasu. The mirror is also important in Buddhism as a polyvalent symbol and a divine attribute that represents the quality of the enlightened mindstream or bodhicitta. In The Handbook of Buddhist Symbols, Robert Beer (2003) suggested that the mirror was one of eight auspicious substances or “bringers of good fortune” that symbolized attributes of the Eightfold Noble Path. He asserted that the mirror symbolized “right view” and represented “the radiant offering goddess of light, Prabhavati (Tib. ‘Od ‘chang-ma), who presented Shakyamuni with a stainless mirror, symbolizing both the clarity of his realization and the unerring karmic vision of all his previous lives.” (p. 16). The mirror, as the reflective “witness” of light, represents form as the sense faculty of sight whose function is to enable one to see oneself clearly. It is the symbol of emptiness or pure consciousness that reflects all objects impartially yet remains completely unaffected by the images that arise within it, where it reveals all phenomena to be void in essence and without substance. In Shamanism, Mircea Eliade (1964) stated that the mirror was an essential tool said to “help the shaman to ‘see the world’ (that is, to concentrate), or ‘to place the spirits’, or to reflect the needs of mankind.” He further revealed that “the Manchu-Tungusic term designating the mirror, panaptu, is derived from pana, ‘soul, spirit’ or more precisely the ‘soul-shade’” where the mirror is believed to be a receptacle for the soul that grants the shaman the power to see the dead person’s invisible essence reflected in the mirror (p. 154). Through the Japanese tale of Mugen Kane, we see that the shamanic idea of seeing the soul in reflective surfaces and understanding the mirrored surface as a portal to the ancestral realm is distinctively a part of the Shinto tradition, where the strong belief in the power of objects to retain the spirit of those who possessed them reveals the extent to which life and death are believed to be but a seamless aspect of a singular whole that continually works through all things.

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A Jungian view of the mirror In contrast to the prevalent cultural perceptions of the mirror in the West, Jungian psychology views the symbolism of the mirror quite differently. Here, the image of the mirror is believed to reflect the inner transcendent point where the subjective consciousness as the personal self, or Ego, is united with an objective Numinous and impersonal center that subsequently produces the inner unity of “God,” (or Divine) with man, represented symbolically by the personified Christ figure. This process is imagined as a dance or circumambulation around an invisible center where the self as supra-ordinate totality is brought into actuality through the inward turning toward the divine archetype of “human” (God-man, the Imago Dei) residing at the center. Theoretically, this inner “Christ image” is often conceived of as a “mirror” that reflects not only the subjective consciousness of the disciple merged with the empirical man but also offers to humanity the image of a transcendental “whole.” Jung asserts that “Anyone who does not join the dance, who does not make the circumambulation of the center (Christ and Anthropos), is smitten with blindness and sees nothing,” whereas the inward turning toward this amplifying symbol serves as a means of making “the mystery more assimilable to consciousness” (Jung, 1940/1969, p. 280, CW11, pt. 111, para. 425). This imaginal process of inner reflection makes the invisible and formless presence of totality visible to consciousness through a recognizable symbolic image (that of the self). Jung’s reference to the inner image of Christ as both self and a mirror brings out what he calls the “paradoxical subject-object nature of the unknowable.” This inner “mirror” reflects the limited sense of subjective self in union with the Absolute transcendental unknowable Self, where, as Jung states, “when you relate to your own (transcendental) centre, you initiate a process of conscious development which leads to oneness and wholeness” (p. 280 CW11pt. 111 para. 427). By broadening the limited sense of “subjective self ” to include that which is unimaginable and unknowable (beyond the symbolic image), the inner image of Christ as mirror acts simultaneously to both reflect back to the seeker as well as open as a portal to something beyond itself, and while the reflection may be limited, the portal is infinite. Despite the fact that the Western mirror tale of Snow White portrays the mirror as a magical object, it is not really considered a “sacred” object linked with the ancestral realm. We do, however, find the idea of mirror as a sacred portal to the transcendent (the link between microcosm and macrocosm) in another Western mirror tale by English writer Lewis Carroll (1872) called Through the LookingGlass. In this story, the protagonist, a young girl named Alice, falls through a mirror into a world that is an exact opposite reflection of the “real” world. Her task in this alternate reality is to make it across the chessboard, composed of 64 squares. When Alice finds herself in this reflected world after a “fall” through the mirror into a seemingly endless abyss, she is initiated into an heroic journey that she (renamed Lily in the reflective world) must safely navigate in 11 moves to return home (11 being the number of the Dao). The name that Carroll chooses

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for Alice in the mirror world, Lily, is significant because Lilies (the flower) are symbolic for death and because Lila is the Vedic word for the infinite play of the universe which the journey through the mirror symbolizes. When Alice finally makes it across the chessboard through a series of fantastic adventures, she awakens, but much like the Daoist master, Zhuagzi, who asks whether he is the man dreaming that he is a butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming he is a man, Alice questions whether she has dreamed the entire adventure, or whether the adventure has dreamed her (p. 136). Here we see a similarity between East and West that requires us to more fully contemplate the dream nature of the universe. According to late Otto Rank (1989), chess is believed to have originated in the Asiatic group of cultures where it symbolically represents a cosmogram or playing field of possibilities within the universe (p. 312). Here, as infinite play of the universe (Lila), chess is linked to fate and destiny as it offers an intellectual victory over the paradox of life and death, symbolized by yin and yang which represent the essential polarities of the cosmos. For Rank, the purpose of game playing, especially chess, had to do with a deeper esoteric desire to take the opponents pieces (metaphorically described as organs/body parts) one by one and dismember them in an effort to pit opposing forces against one another as a cosmic form of tug o’ war. From a broader mythological perspective, the game of tug o’ war (including shadowboxing with one’s own reflection in the mirror) represents a “coming to consciousness” through the act of manifest creation as the interplay between masculine and feminine energies foundational to the cosmos. Linked to the game of tug o’ war is the idea of spontaneous growth (rooted in the feminine) versus directed will (rooted in the masculine). In other words, we must consider whether things arise and grow according to their own natures (feminine/wild nature) or whether things arise and grow in the ways that human beings determine and will them to (masculine/cultivated nature). The answer to this query is an and/both; the paradox (reflected image) must be held and integrated as a set of complementary polarities rather than competing opposites if neither aspect is to annihilate the other (p. 316). Rank (1989) further suggested that the contemporary form of the game of chess was actually a transformation of the mother world-view, with its chthonian immortalityideology, into spiritual immortality, not of the father, but of the creative-ego, of which the head (the king) became the representative. Hence, in chess, the king is physically almost powerless, while the domination of the mother is still retained as the dominant role of the queen. (p. 315) The victory of the masculine over the feminine theoretically represents an awakening of spiritual consciousness over an unconscious ourobouric identification with the feminine as matter, and Alice’s journey into the “other world,” experienced as a movement through the mirror (as opposed to a reflection from the

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mirror), reveals a process that moves from one dream state to another, where the validity and reality of both are brought into question. Like the I-Ching found in the Daoist tradition, the chessboard potentially offers 64 energetic or archetypal possibilities that can spontaneously emerge throughout the “game” of life. In Number and Time, written after Jung’s death by his associate, Marie-Louise von Franz (1974), we find a useful discussion of the I-Ching, Daoist number theory, and chess derived from the work of Fa-Tzang on Hwa Yen Buddhism. Fa-Tzang described chess as a divinatory technique for living in that the victor’s moves in the game of chess were important because they indicated harmony with the Tao. In her work, Von Franz stated that Jung believed numbers to be an expression of archetypal energy and that deep research into the natural numbers could most accurately reveal the unity of psyche and matter (p. 115). Von Franz, who worked with and was deeply influenced by Mokusen Miyuki, fleshed out Jung’s idea regarding the idea of a continuum with the numbers, where number represented the common ordering factor of psyche and matter. Much like Kitaro’s concept of emptiness as a field of potentiality, von Franz stated that Jung defined the psyche as “a spectrum-like field of reality situated between the ‘infrared’ pole of material bodily reactions at the one end, and the ‘ultraviolet’ pole of the archetypes at the other” (p. 4). The infrared pole represented the embodied/ visible while the ultraviolet pole represented the archetypal unmanifest/invisible aspect where both function as factors in consciousness. According to von Franz, these two poles represented the concept in physics of unequivocal polarity or complementarity. The most compelling expression of psyche manifesting into matter came through what von Franz described as Jung’s theory on synchronistic events; those experiences where “a symbolic image constellated in the psychic inner world, a dream, or a waking vision, or a sudden hunch originating in the unconscious coincides in a miraculous manner with an event of similar meaning in the outer world” (p. 6). The notion of synchronicity, well-known in the East, but not so well-known in the West, lies at the heart of the differences between East and West. The I-Ching, based upon the principle of synchronicity and the appearance of the anomaly rather than the predictable, is in direct contrast with Western empirical science which demands repeatability and consistency as a measure of the real and the true. From an Eastern perspective, it is precisely that which disrupts the predictable that contains the deeper meaning, worthy of the most attention and response.

Conclusion Ultimately Jung’s (1969/1940) awareness of the underlying psychological truths foundational to different cultures led him to suggest that the fundamental differences between East and West were to be found in the extraverted “style” or psychological point of view of the West based on a quantifiable understanding of the universe (a “masculinized” or externalized/outward directed consciousness) and an introverted (“feminized” or ourobouric/inward directed consciousness)

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one in the East. Simply stated, the West seeks the Divine outside of the self, where humanity is small and subject to the Grace of God (where God is personified) while the East believes that man is God (the Monad of potentiality found within) where humanity is the sole cause of its own liberation (p. 481, pt.1, para. 770). In addition, “mind” in the East is a cosmic factor. It is the very essence of existence (a noun or state of Being) and something metaphysical where a connection exists between each individual and a Universal Mind (Kokoro or heart-mind), while in the West, “mind” is viewed as a psychic function (like an activity or a verb) rather than a state of Being. In the West, man is no longer understood as the microcosm, acting on behalf of the ancestors in an animated cosmos where all things are living and endowed with a healing, magical power through which humanity and psyche mutually interact. Instead, the West generally sees Eastern animism as a mere projection and perceives mind as the mental functioning of the psyche that forms the essential condition of cognition and cognitive existence in the world. In truth, both perspectives are psychologically true and must be examined deeply to get to the root of essential perspectives found in the East and West. Understanding the cosmos as sacred and alive via the ancestors is difficult for many Westerners, and relinquishing tradition in favor of the new is often difficult for Eastern cultures. Living in the place of paradox (where things are not what they seem) forces us to move into the unknown and accept that which we cannot understand. Perhaps there is no possibility of a full integration of East and West, or perhaps integration simply means that different things get to exist in the same place at the same time. Or, perhaps most importantly, there is only a developing awareness of the murky unformed center within each of us; the inner mirror of emptiness which must continually be polished and cultivated with conscious care and attention because it is the place from which living experience arises, unknown, full of unique possibility, and eternally unfolding for us all.

References Carroll, L. (1872) Through the Looking Glass: And What Alice Found There, London: Macmillian. Eliade, M. (1964) Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy (W.R. Trask, Trans.), Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Grimm, J., and Grimm, W. (1945) Grimm’s Fairy Tales (E. Lucas, L. Crane, and M. Edwards, Trans.), New York: Grosset & Dunlap. Hearn, L. (1971) Kwaidan, Tokyo: Tuttle Press. Hearn, L. (2001) Kokoro, Tokyo: Tuttle Press. Jung, C.G. (1969) Transformation Symbolism in the Mass (R.F.C. Hull, Trans.). In H. Read et al. (series Eds.), The Collected Works of C. G. Jung (Vol. 11, pt. 111, 2nd ed., pp. 201–296), Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (original work published in 1940). Jung, C.G. (1969) On Psychic Energy (R.F.C. Hull, Trans.). In H. Read et al. (series Eds.), The Collected Works of C. G. Jung (Vol. 8, pt. 1, 2nd ed., pp. 3–66), Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (original work published in 1948).

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Kitaro, N. (1987) Intuition and Reflection in Self-Consciousness (V.H. Viglielmo, T. Takeuchi, and J.S. O’Leary, Trans.), New York: SUNY. Rank, O. (1989) Art and Artist: Creative Urge and Personality Development (C.F. Atkinson, Trans.), New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Spiegelman, J.M., and Miyuki, M. (1987) Buddhism and Jungian Psychology, Phoenix: Falcon Press. von Franz, M. (1974) Number and Time (J. Hillman, Ed.; A. Dykes, Trans.), Evanston: Northwestern UP.

3

East meets West in World War II Implications for Japan’s maternal culture David Fisher

Introduction Hayao Kawai (1928–2007) cited by Konoyu Nakamura in Analytical Psychology in a Changing World offered this theory on the Japanese psyche: “Japan is a country with a strong maternal principle. Strictly speaking, Japan is a society of ‘puer eternus’ grounded on the maternal principle” (1976, p. 24). Midori Igeta (1946–) rejected Kawai’s characterization, declaring that it is representative only of the male Japanese psyche: “we cannot ignore the fact that what they mean by ‘Japanese’ does not include women, and that they focus on ‘Japanese men’ alone,” (1998, p. 341). Further, Nakamura (2015) reminds us that it is difficult for current Japanese analysts to challenge the first generation of Japanese Jungian analysts exemplified by Kawai. This comports with Inazo Nitobe’s (1969) observation concerning Shintoism and Japanese culture: “such loyalty to the sovereign, such reverence for ancestral memory, and such filial piety as are not taught by any other creed, were inculcated by the Shinto doctrines” (p. 7). Accepting Igeta’s rebuke and bracketing the discussion to the male Japanese psyche, it appears there is a historical tension between the male Japanese psyche of the feudal Samurai and of Kawai’s 1976 male Japanese psyche. Though the remnants of martial sports such as Aikido, Kendo, and Sumo are present in modern day Japan, their connection to the Samurai and Bushido past feels like a mnemic trace. The next section follows this thread back through Japan’s historical roots.

Historical background: Japan as a martial society The historical summary that follows is not intended to be a critique of Japan’s history but rather is intended to frame the tension between Kawai’s maternal society characterization and her history. The Ashikaga period (1333–1603) was characterized by constant strife and civil war characterized by the Onin war of 1467–1477: Fighting became endemic in the streets of the capital itself, and in the course of the decade, Kyoto was nearly destroyed . . . so destructive physically was

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David Fisher this decade that some Japanese historians have maintained that Japanese history really began only after this period. (Sansom, 1961, p. 89)

However, the Onin war did not conclusively conclude the hostilities. In fact, “the Onin war triggered another century of warfare, known appropriately to the indigenous historians as Sengoku Jidai, a hundred years of warring states” (Sansom, 1961, p. 89). Nitobe (1969) says this about the start of the latter period of the Ashikaga era: An acute French savant, M. de la Mazeliere, thus sums up his impressions of the sixteenth century: “Toward the middle of the sixteenth century, all is confusion in Japan, in the government, in society, in the church. But the civil wars, the manners returning to barbarism, the necessity for each to execute justice for himself – these formed men comparable to those Italians of the sixteenth century”. . . . In Japan as in Italy the rude manners of the Middle Ages made of man a superb animal, wholly militant and wholly resistant. (p. 13) It was at the end of this period of 100 years of warring states begat the Tokugawa period (1603–1868). The Tokugawa period was distinguished by 250 years of peace with samurai as administrators: Tokugawa Ieyasu and his immediate successors were faced with the fundamental choice of resisting or accepting change. Recalling the previous periods of political disunity and of the terrible civil wars, they chose as their foremost policies those of political stability and national isolation. (Sansom, 1963, p. 103) Though the beginning of this era was tumultuous, it did eventually become a period of relative stability in Japanese culture and a welcome respite from the civil wars of the Middle Ages. This stability came at a price, however: Japan withdrew into herself. This isolation, however, came to an end with the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry in Tokyo bay in 1853. Though Commodore Perry did not really open Japan to the West (Japan had been trading with both the Dutch and Chinese under special charters), his arrival led Japan to [open] its ports to modern trade only reluctantly, once it did, it took advantage of the new access to modern technological developments. Japan’s opening to the West enabled it to modernize its military, and to rise quickly to the position of the most formidable Asian power in the Pacific. At the same time, the process by which the United States and the Western powers forced Japan into modern commercial intercourse, along with other internal factors, weakened the position of the Tokugawa Shogunate to the point

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that the shogun fell from power. The Emperor gained formal control of the country in the Meiji Restoration of 1868, with long-term effects for the rule and modernization of Japan. (2019, Office of the Historian, n.p.) Throughout the Meiji period, Japan rose to be an imperial power. Embracing Western technology, the Japanese military was modernized. In addition, the importation of Western knowledge and technology allowed the Imperial army to become a regional powerhouse, annexing Taiwan, Korea, and eventually large swathes of China in the early twentieth century. She was, in short, in the thrall of the huntsman. As Nietzsche chronicled in Ariadne’s Lament: Stretched out, shuddering Like a half-dead thing whose feet are warmed, Shaken by unknown fevers, Shivering with piercing icy frost arrows, Hunted by thee, O thought! Unutterable! Veiled! Horrible one! Thou huntsman behind the clouds. Struck down by the lightning bolt, Thou mocking eye that stares at me from the dark! Thus, I lie, Writhing, twisted, tormented With all eternal tortures, Smitten by thee, cruel huntsman, Thou unknown – God! By the late 1920s Japanese industry had surpassed agriculture (Federal Research Division, 1990, p. XXIX). Japan’s decision to attack the United States in 1941 was the culmination of a long build up in collective masculine energy. In this way, Jung warned in 1936, the winds of Wotan signal a dangerous energy awakening in the German psyche in the godhead of Hitler: The impressive thing about the German phenomenon is that one man, who is obviously “possessed,” has infected a whole nation to such an extent that everything is set in motion and has started rolling on its course to perdition. (Jung, 1936/1964, para. 388) Similarly, it would seem, the Meiji restoration, with the emperor as divine god sent to Earth [Japan] by the sun goddess Amaterasu parallels this image of leader as godhead, leading to its own road to perdition.

Wotan rising in Japan Against this long, and not unique, background of civil and imperial warfare we have Kawai’s assertion that the Japanese have a maternal principle

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grounded in a puer eternus psyche. If we take Kawai’s assertion at face value, how does that square with Japan’s very masculine Bushido and martial Imperial past? It seems that we have a very different thing, a radical restructuring of psychic energy that occurred rapidly, violently, and emerged from the extreme tension between two things of opposite polarity: in short, an enantiodromia. Jung said: Out of [the] collision of opposites the unconscious psyche always creates a third thing of an irrational nature, which the conscious mind neither expects nor understands. It presents itself in a form that is neither a straight “yes” nor a straight “no”. (Jung, 1940/1961, para. 285) Building upon her early Imperial victories it seemed that Japan was set to become a world power. Jung describes this rising collective war energy: “a craze develops, a monomania or possession, an acute one-sidedness which most seriously imperils the psychic equilibrium” (Jung, 1917/1966, para. 111). Further, Japan’s initial success by striking a stunning blow to the United States at Pearl Harbor reinforced belief in the emperor and divine destiny. However, after the defeat of Germany in World War II, the United States focused its energy on pushing Japan back toward her home islands. Each island taken by the United States reinforced the fervor and psychic energy to fght harder to defend the Japanese home islands, for If the subjective consciousness prefers the ideas and opinions of the collective consciousness and identifies with them, then the contents of the collective unconscious are repressed. The repression has typical consequences: the energy charge of the repressed contents adds itself, in some measure, to that of the repressing factor, whose effectiveness is increased accordingly. The higher its charge mounts, the more repressive attitude requires a fanatical attitude and the nearer it comes to conversion into its opposite, i.e. an enantiodromia. (Jung, 1954/1969, para. 425) This manifested later in the war with the rise of the kamikazes and kaiten which parallels the beserkers of German legend and cosmology: “Wotan confned himself to the beserkers who found their vocation as the Blackshirts of mythical kings,” (Jung, 1936/1964, para. 386). What I am trying to delineate here is that as Japan was objectively losing the war, this was being repressed, leading to an accumulating psychic charge in the Japanese collective unconscious which reinforced a manic belief in the infallibility of Emperor Hirohito – a dangerously rising tension between the divinity of the unseen and unheard emperor and the utter destruction of the Imperial Army. It would appear that this devotion of the Japanese to the emperor’s divinity did not go unnoticed by the United States and her allies:

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in January, 1943, Roosevelt met with British prime minister Winston Churchill in Casablanca, where they issued the unconditional surrender ultimatum. . . . the insistence on unconditional surrender was controversial for it spurred the [Japanese] militarists to fight to the bitter end. (Meyer, 2009, p. 213) One of the constraints imposed on the acceptance of unconditional surrender was that the emperor must abdicate his divinity, publicly, on the deck of the United States battleship Missouri. This imposed ritual humiliation of the emperor and the Japanese people cannot be overlooked psychologically, for humiliation implies punishment for guilt, in this case collective guilt. Jung says: the psychological use of the word “guilt” should not be confused with guilt in the legal or moral sense. . . . guilt can be restricted to the lawbreaker only from the legal, moral, and intellectual point of view, but as a psychic phenomena it spreads itself over the whole neighborhood [Japan]. (Jung, 1945/1964, para. 403) This notion of collective guilt was reinforced by the imposition of a pacifst constitution still in force to this day, some 75 years after the end of the war. Something, notably, that was not imposed on Germany and other Axis powers after their surrender.

Collective guilt and its effect on Japanese society Earlier, I referenced Jung’s notion of collective guilt. Jung was speaking in the context of German collective guilt, but for many in Asia, Imperial Japan was and is viewed through the same lens. Collective guilt, as Jung pointed out, is not confined to only the individual perpetrator, it is applied without regard to justice in the traditional sense of the word. He states: “[The] irrational nature of collective guilt, it cares nothing for the just and the unjust, it is the dark cloud that rises from the scene of an unexpiated crime” (Jung, 1945/1963, para. 407). By this he was alluding to the fact that a murderer’s family, for instance, bears the shame of collective guilt, even if they had nothing to do with the actual crime itself. Rather, this dark cloud follows the family as well as the actual murderer. This distinction is important, for collective guilt serves to bring the totality of guilt into collective consciousness and pave the way toward psychological growth. Guilt is not bad, it is a gift that can restore balance, both individually as well as collectively. Jung (1945/1963) says: “If only people could realize what an enrichment it is to find one’s own guilt, what a sense of honour and spiritual dignity!” (para. 416). However, the Allied Powers, and especially the United States, went well beyond ensuring Japan’s collective guilt. Instead, they self-righteously adjudicated both moral and legal guilt over the entire strata of Japanese society: from the poorest rice farmer up through the emperor himself. What was done to Japan, through the ritual humiliation of Emperor Hirohito, was collective retribution for having

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embarrassed the United States at Pearl Harbor and the Philippines. Two images summarize this. In the first image, captured in picture one, we see Emperor Hirohito in traditional dress.

Humiliation and its aftermath In the numerous pictures of Emperor Hirohito signing the instrument of surrender on the deck of the USS Missouri the insulting behavior and contempt of Gen. MacArthur is evident. In one, he is standing with his hands in his pocket while the unknown officer in ranks is standing with his arms crossed and another officer is smirking. In addition, none of the United States’ officers are in dress uniform. These actions are a severe breach of military etiquette and served to signal the fact that MacArthur viewed the Japanese as inferior and unworthy of respect. Emperor Hirohito himself has arrived in Western formal dress to sign the instrument of surrender rather than in his military uniform or traditional Japanese dress. None of these behaviors were on display at Germany’s signing of their instrument of surrender. Instead, the Allied commanders and German commanders were all in full military dress with the German commanders seated at a table, not being forced to stand on the deck of a warship and essentially bow in front of the Allied commanders to sign the documents. As a former member of the United States military, the differences on display at the two surrenders are breathtaking and point to fact that from MacArthur’s standpoint, the Japanese people in general, and Hirohito specifically, were an Other that needed to be shamed, like a misbehaving child, while the Germans were treated as worthy adversaries deserving of respect. The threads being weaved up to this point may not have yet coalesced into a discernable tapestry, so here I will attempt to pull them together. The hypothesis presented at the beginning of this chapter is that something happened to the Japanese psyche after the end of World War II. Further, if we accept Kawai’s assertion and Igeta’s rebuke, then something happened to the Japanese male psyche after the conclusion of World War II. Iwao Akita (2019) traces his concept of the disfigured hero through manga, a uniquely Japanese form of serial comics (or graphic novels) that exploded in popularity after World War II. He attributes this, in part, to the aftereffects of World War II. Here I offer the hypothesis that it was a cultural enantiodromia brought on by the psychic tension between the two poles of Hirohito’s divinity and the psychological emasculation of the emperor. Further, MacArthur and the allies killed the godhead of the Japanese by demanding the abdication of divinity by Hirohito: the Japanese god was indeed, now dead. The conclusion of World War II heralded a new era in Japanese history. Jung said: “psychological collective guilt is a tragic fate, it hits everybody, just and unjust alike” (1945/1963, para. 405). Thus, the generation born during and shortly after World War II would have grown up in a disparate environment from their fathers. Their fathers would still, and perhaps to this day the current generation, carry the psychological yoke of collective guilt of the type that Jung

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Figure 3.1 Emperor Showa

articulated. Kawai, in 1976, would have been one of the first to grow up in this postwar environment and would thus tend to see something quite distinct from what his grandfather and father would have experienced. This new Rising Sun, foreshadowed by the twin horrible suns over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was hinted at by Emperor Hirohito’s (1945) Jewel Broadcast, the first time the Japanese people had ever heard him speak “we have resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all the generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable.” Seventy years on, perhaps Japan can finally expiate its collective guilt and free itself from enduring the unendurable.

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References Akita, I. (2019). Disfigured Hero. Osaka: International Association of Jungian Studies Regional Conference. Federal Research Division (1990). Japan: A Country Study. Washington, DC: Library of Congress. Hirohito. (1945). The Jewel Broadcast [Radio broadcast]. Igeta, M. (1998). Nihon Kokka to Onna [The Japanese State and Women]. Tokyo: Seikyusha. Jung, C. G. (1917). ‘The Personal and the Collective Unconscious’ in Collected Works, Vol. 7. Jung, C. G. (1936). ‘Wotan’ in Collected Works, Vol. 9i. Jung, C. G. (1940). ‘The Psychology of the Child Archetype’ in Collected Works, Vol. 9i. Jung, C. G. (1945). ‘After the Catastrophe’ in Collected Works, Vol. 10. Jung, C. G. (1954). ‘On the Nature of the Psyche’ in Collected Works, Vol. 8. Kawai, H. (1976). Boseisyakai Nihon no Byori [The Pathology of the Maternal Society of Japan]. Tokyo: Chuo-koron-sha. Meyer, M. W. (2009). Japan: A Concise History. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Nakamura, K. (2015). ‘Jungian Conversations with Feminism and Society in Japan’ in L. Huskinson and M. Stein (eds.), Analytical Psychology in a Changing World: The Search for Self, Identity and Community. New York: Routledge. Nitobe, I. (1969). Bushido. Clarendon: Charles E. Tuttle Co. Inc. Office of the Historian (2019). The United States and the Opening to Japan, 1853. Online. Available: < https://history.state.gov/milestones/1830-1860/openingto-japan> (accessed 2 October 2020). Sansom, G. (1961). A History of Japan: 1334–1615. Redwood City: Stanford University Press. Sansom, G. (1963). A History of Japan: 1615–1867. Redwood City: Stanford University Press.

4

The Cultural Father in EastWest Psychology Elly Lin

As a Chinese-born immigrant and psychotherapist living and working in San Francisco, an East–West crossroads, I encounter many kinds of cross-cultural situations in my daily work. Thus, it is imperative for me to search for a meaningful context where these differences can be encompassed, understood and related to. Analytical psychology offers just such context. Particularly, among the many Jungian ideas leading to new inspirations here are the Hero myth and the dynamic relationship between the ego and the Self. In my experience, cultural differences, if ignored or interpreted in a narrow, personalistic frame, fall flat and meaningless at best; at worst, they are cause for misunderstandings and mishaps. The archetypal considerations, however, can expand the interpersonal dyad into a much larger and deeper context where differences become portals into a previously unknown psychic realm of richness and aliveness. In this chapter, I use two clinical vignettes, each a congregate of similar cases, to elaborate how analytical psychology can provide a meaningful context for thinking about and working with cross-cultural differences. The first case is an Asian woman and the second case is a Caucasian American man. They each exhibit some recognizable cultural patterns in their personal psychology – patterns often seen as Eastern and Western, respectively. However, given the complexity of the East–West differences, I would not go so far as claiming that they are the typical representatives. Rather, the two vignettes, in juxtaposition with each other, form one of the many possible patterns of how the East and the West may differ. Case I: Jane is an Asian woman in her late 20s, born in the US to immigrant parents. On the outside, she seems to be well put together – having gone to prestigious schools, holding a stable job, and socializing with a circle of friends regularly. Internally, however, she is extremely paralyzed and isolated. Even though she has been living independently and has had minimal contact with her parents since high school, she cannot expel their harsh judging and shaming voices. Receiving a simple holiday greeting text from her parents could lead to a sleepless night when she replays many of the mocking remarks from them during her childhood. She cannot make personal decisions without having her parents’ scornful faces

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Elly Lin popping up in her head. She has friends, but could rarely share her genuine feelings with them for fear of judgement. She has shared her real experience with me and become emotional at times, but her opening up has a dissociated quality to it, as what has been talked about in one session is often mostly gone by the next. I explored this with her, and she acknowledged that she opened up to me because she thought she was supposed to, since this is what therapy is for. Case II: Matt is a Caucasian American man in his early 30s who grew up in a singleparent household. When he was two, his father disappeared, leaving his mother alone to support Matt and herself on her minimum wage. Matt was very bright, an overachiever in school. His mother showered him with words of admiration and amazement often. There is a sense that she relied on his accomplishments as some kind of mental boost. On the other hand, she gave him no academic or personal guidance, nor discipline for his misbehavior. On the surface, there was hardly any conflict between them. As an adult, Matt is extremely sensitive to judgement and disapproval from others, always nervously on the watch for any negative feedback. At the same time, he craves for authentic engagement with others and has an idealistic imagination about what that looks like. In intimate relationships, he has a strong tendency towards performing, pleasing and care-taking, at the expense of his own genuine needs. This inevitably leads to him feeling trapped and lonely, whether in or out of a relationship. The unbearable loneliness has driven him to using alcohol as a way to escape into a fantasy world.

With the two vignettes placed side by side, the underlying thread that stands out to me is the patients’ vastly different relationship to the archetypal Father. The archetypal Father invokes the image of law and order, conscience and morality, men and women as pillars of society who supervise the youth and ensure the passing down of collective values. While, according to Neumann, the image of the Mother remains relatively constant across cultures, the image of the Father tends to vary from culture to culture (Neumann 1970, p. 172). This cultural Father is also what shapes and conditions the personal father and mother (through her animus). Thus, the cultural Father stands out with strong influence directed in both ways, up to the archetypal and down to the personal. And how the East and the West differ on this dimension of the cultural Father is what I am hoping to explore in the following elaboration and analysis of the two clinical vignettes. Jane’s parents are psychologically rooted in a culture where Confucianism is the dominant value system. Despite having grown up in America, Jane was immersed in an environment where the moral and behavioral codes of Confucianism were implicitly or explicitly implemented. In this system, filial piety, family and social hierarchy, and the concept of shame are a few of the mental objects that are meant to be “introjected” into one’s being at an early age (Bollas 2013, p. 66). It is not the aim of this chapter to comment on the historical significance

The Cultural Father in East-West Psychology 45 of Confucianism. Rather, I will demonstrate how these Confucianist concepts have given rise to the negative Father in the psyche of Jane and many others from a similar upbringing. By definition, the negative Father refers to the side of the archetypal Father that holds on to the old order, blocks new development and destroys the Child’s progress into the future (Neumann 1970, p. 170). Under the dominance of the negative Father, Jane is always plagued by feelings of shame, guilt, inadequacy, and defeat. The model of the ego–Self axis (Edinger 1972, p. 41) offers insight into how an ancient tradition such as Confucianism shows up as the negative Father. The ego and the Self are two centers of psychic being, with the ego being the center of the conscious personality and the Self being the center of the total psyche. The relationship between the ego and the Self goes through cycles of inflation (the ego is identified with the Self), alienation (the ego is rejected by the Self), and reconnection (the ego is accepted by the Self). Through continuously and repeatedly going through these stages, the ego grows and obtains more consciousness with each completion of the cycle. However, there are two points in the cycle where the process can be blocked, one of them being the place where the ego is stuck in alienation and unable to access acceptance and reconnection with the Self. The early phase of the ego-Self axis is often identical with the child-parent relationship. Thus, in Jane’s case, the Self, as an archetypal form, is predominantly inhabited by the cultural Father imbued with Confucianist values. On the other end of the axis, there is the young and developing ego in the child. In this way, the moral and behavioral codes dictated by Confucianism are placed in a relational context between the ego and the Self. Without considering the ego–Self relationship, the single-minded execution of these Confucianist codes creates an unfavorable and doomed situation for the child. Take the shame concept in Confucianism as an example. While shame is a universal concept, Confucianism glorifies and elevates it to a new level by conceptualizing it not only as an emotion but also as a “human capacity” (Li, Wang, and Fischer 2004, p. 769). Having a sense of shame is honorable and having no sense of shame is shameful. When a child fails to meet expectations, makes a mistake, misbehaves or does anything that does not fit into a rigidly defined box of acceptable behaviors, the consequence is severe emotional abandonment by way of shame. Confucianism seems to ask the child to take on the sense of shame as an honor, but many sensitive souls end up stranded in the land of depression, anxiety and low self-worth, with the vital link between the ego and the Self permanently severed. Filial piety, resulting in rigid family hierarchy, is another core concept in Confucianism that drove young Jane into a dead end in the cycle of the ego–Self relationship. Filial piety dictates a set of behaviors and attitudes that children are obligated to carry out to demonstrate respect for their parents. Perhaps Confucius and his disciples did not account for the darker, more instinctual, and less ideal side of human nature in the design of their model. The system of filial piety breaks down when parents themselves do not live up to the Confucius ideal and

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project their shadow onto their children, and the children must obey and respect their parents’ authority regardless. The most unfortunate situation is when parents project their shadow on to their children in the disguise of disciplining and teaching them, as this kind of parental rejection destroys children’s trust in their own, healthy instincts, causing irreversible damage to the ego–Self link. In other words, certain values embedded in Confucianism may be antithetical to the development of a healthy ego-Self axis. With the ego–Self link broken, the ego has lost the vital source for its well-being. The Self, as the original symbol of wholeness, is inaccessible to the ego. In its place is the negative Father that makes endless demands and is never satisfied. Under constant berating and devaluing, the ego shrivels and has its future potentials foreclosed. The negative Father has succeeded in keeping the old order and preventing the future from coming forward. The Hero myth offers a compelling image. The struggle with the archetypal Father and Mother, “the dragon fight,” is an integral part of the birth of the Hero, which represents the emergence of human consciousness as well as the development of the individual ego. The emancipation of the Hero cannot be successful without the slaying of the negative Father (Neumann 1970, p. 184). The Confucian culture plays out one variation of the dragon fight, where the negative Father perpetually dominates and the Hero is defeated. The Chinese character for filial piety, 孝, with the old sitting on top of the young, encapsulates this moment in the course of both collective and individual conscious development in one single image. My work with Jane is crucially hinged on whether she and I will be able to restore the ego–Self connection. If Jane’s healing and growth is represented by the struggle and birth of the Hero, the therapy container can be seen as the earlier stage of the development, the uroboros, where she is invited to enter so that a rebirth could be possible. To her, the very idea of psychotherapy, with its acceptance and valuing of feelings and experiences of the individual, offers hope, but she can only access that hopefulness from her negative Father-dominated psyche. She tries to open up only out of a sense of obligation, per the “requirement” of therapy. In my experience, the work on the restoration of the alienated ego requires patience, trust in the inherent healing function of the Self, and close attention to any emergent authentic voices in the patient. Matt’s case presents a striking difference as far as the presence of the Father. His personal father is absent, which perhaps reflects a larger cultural trend in the West, especially if we consider the various forms of absence. It would have been entirely conceivable for his mother to be a “good enough father” for him (Samuels 2015, p. 87), but that is not what happened. Obviously, a lot can be said about mothering and his relationship with his mother, but, for the purpose of this chapter, I will be focusing on Matt’s inner and interpersonal dynamics around the cultural Father. Matt is a very pleasant patient. He is consistent in coming to the sessions, always brings ample personal material, actively reflects on his feelings, and is open and curious about the dynamics between he and I. Bright and articulate, he goes into great detail about his life that feels real, accurate and fair, so I have a good

The Cultural Father in East-West Psychology 47 sense of his inner and outer world. On one occasion, he found a way to ask me if he was my best patient. It was at this juncture that I was awakened to the reality of how he was with his mother and intimate partners. Before this point, I intellectually understood that he performed for others and sought to please them, always leaving himself out of the equation, all for the momentary mental elevation of being a star. After this point, I actually felt it. I had a taste of what it must be like to be the object of his pleasing. This did not mean, however, that he had been disingenuous with me. In reflecting on our dynamic together, I realized that he simply does not know what else to do in relationships. In terms of the cycle of the ego–Self relationship, Matt’s case demonstrates a different breaking point, where the ego hardly experiences alienation and becomes stuck in inflation – it is identified, at least partially, with the Self. If, after every session, my countertransference feeling is always “great patient, great session,” I know that this is Matt’s way of giving me a taste of what it is like to be his inflated self. However, I am careful not to simply reduce his inflation down to pathology, as I understand there is also great creative potential in the inflation, provided that both he and I are aware. The main point here is that Matt’s case forms a striking contrast to Jane’s. If the harsh negative Father has driven Jane out of the paradise, leaving her permanently stranded and suspicious about entering any kind of unity with anyone, Matt has been lingering for too long in the Garden of Eden, where he is addicted to the fantasy of a perfect union between himself and the world that is painless and conflict-free. Let us go back to the Hero myth for a moment. As previously stated, the birth of the Hero cannot be successful without the slaying of the negative Father. If the slaying of the negative Father represents the replacing of the old order by ushering in the new image of the future, then Matt is presented with a very different challenge than Jane. While the Hero in Jane has been defeated and terribly wounded by the overly dominating negative Father, in Matt’s situation, there has been no Father for him to slay, no dragon for him to fight with. This is true in Matt’s family situation, but it is also both preconditioned and reenforced by the cultural situation surrounding him. In contemporary Western culture, the voice of the stern, rigid, and authoritarian father has been deconstructed and beaten down. Essentially, Matt was born into a culture that had already slayed the Father, robbing him of the opportunity to do this as an individual on his own. In order to grow, however, the individual ego must “follow the road that humanity has trod before him” (Neumann 1970, p. xvi). Having no Father dragon to fight with is a problem that I have witnessed in more individuals with their cultural roots in the West than those in the East. Being native to a culture where the Father dominates, I have a particular sensitivity to hurting others through judgement and disapproval. After all, I have seen too many Janes falling victim to the harsh negative Father and retreating into permanent exile. So I feel cautious with what I do with Matt. This makes me vulnerable to falling into the position of his mother, who never challenges him. I was aware that a healthy separation of the ego from the Self is needed for him to grow, but I was not sure what the “rupture” would look like, whether it

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is to play out between he and his partner, he and his mother, or he and I. Soon, an opportunity presented itself. One day, Matt, stressed out from having done something to the disappointment of his partner, came to our session intoxicated. When prompted, he acknowledged that there was still some alcohol in the ice tea bottle that he was holding. I felt uneasy and even angry. I realized that Matt had hit the layer of my psyche where a strong Father resides. Negative or positive, it is a layer that my ancestors have kept strengthening for thousands of years. On the positive side, it is a layer that is populated by words such as respect, order, self-constraint, principle, humility, but, simultaneously, it is also closely associated to feelings of shame, oppression, fear, and defeat. With Matt (unconsciously) poking around in the mutual psychic space that he and I had constructed together, I found myself in a position of restoring some of the Father dragon that I had pushed to the side and had been eager to help Jane fight. In the next few sessions, Matt and I discussed what had happened, beginning with me telling him that I had felt disrespected by his behavior. Session after session, Matt alternated between guilt and defensiveness, shame and defiance against shame. We “argued” intensely in ways we had not in the past. I took caution to not make it into a moral accusation but focused on the relationship between he and I. After all, with him being intoxicated I felt that a significant part of him had run away from us and that I was left alone to do his work. I could tell that there was a layer of excitement in the room underneath all of the other feelings both he and I were experiencing. He had, perhaps, finally found a Father dragon to fight with. Here we come to conclude the presentation of an essential aspect in how the East and the West may differ. One side is dominated by the oppression of the Father and the other suffers from its absence. On one side, the Hero is defeated or weakened; on the other, the Hero finds himself in a vacuum with nothing to push up against. Ideally, the Eastern and Western cultural Fathers represent archetypal elements that can work together for the benefit of the individuation process – a Father who holds rules and order, but is not so overly dominating as to not allow the Hero to emerge. It seems essential in my work that I remain sensitive to my patient’s relationship to the cultural Father, especially to how it may form an impediment in the development of the ego–Self relationship. Through this awareness, I endeavor to bring in the aspect of the cultural Father that is needed to reestablish flow in the individuation process. I realize that my work in a diverse clinical context has expanded my horizon beyond Confucianism to many other Father images from a wealth of world cultures – Father images that I hope, instead of being driven away, are invited back for the making of the Hero within.

References Bollas, C. (2013) China on the Mind, New York, NY: Routledge. Edinger, E.F. (1972) Ego and Archetype, Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc.

The Cultural Father in East-West Psychology 49 Li, J., Wang, L., and Fischer, K.W. (2004) ‘The Organization of Chinese Shame Concepts’, Cognition and Emotion, 18(6): 767–797. Neumann, E. (1970) The Origins and History of Consciousness, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Samuels, A. (2015) ‘The Good-Enough Father of Whatever Sex’, in Passions, Psychotherapy, Politics: The Selected Works of Andrew Samuels, London and New York: Routledge.

Part 2

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Narcissism and difference Narcissism of minor differences revisited Kazunori Kono

Introduction In A Difficulty in the Path of Psycho-Analysis, Sigmund Freud points out that it is not intellectual difficulty but emotional one that makes it hard to accept psychoanalysis. This is because the discoveries of psychoanalysis insult human narcissism. “The universal narcissism of men, their self-love,” Freud writes, “has up to the present suffered three severe blows from the researches of science” (1917, p. 139). Following the cosmological humiliation by Copernicus and the biological one by Darwin, he puts his own idea “the ego is not master in its own house” as the third, that is, the psychological one. World War II, whose consequences Freud never saw, also brought insult to human narcissism in the form of man’s aggression against man. As if to foresee this, Freud, in his correspondence with Albert Einstein, states that “there is no use in trying to get rid of men’s aggressive inclinations” (1933b, p. 211) and further asserts that such an attempt is “an illusion” (ibid., p. 212). Now, we could say that we live in a post-traumatic society built on the grave injury to man’s narcissism. In postwar society, people have enjoyed consumerism and individualism as if to repudiate this trauma while experiencing the downfall of traditional norms and values. This situation came to be described in the 1970s by the newly popularized term of “narcissism” (Lunbeck, 2014). In The Culture of Narcissism (1978), Christopher Lasch critically points out the rise of narcissism due to the collapse of authority and the complicity between the mass media and the proliferation of the superficial in the American individualism. Since then, the term narcissism, deviated its original usage in psychoanalysis, has been frequently used for social and cultural criticism. Even today, we can clearly see its negative connotation. Today, individualism is exalted and high self-esteem is valued more than ever, and these trends are further accelerated by information technology and social media. Although questions about the causal relationship between narcissism and social media remain unresolved, it has been the subject of much debate over the last decade. Some researchers consider that social media plays an essential role in the rise of narcissism and its growth potentially contributes to the narcissistic tendencies in our society (Twenge & Campbell, 2009). A recent study reveals

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a strong association between the “grandiose narcissism” and the whole social media behaviors (McCain & Campbell, 2018). Social media and search engines get us caught in what Eli Pariser calls “filter bubble” and keep us surrounded only by information that suits our tastes. All these phenomena are often critically argued as narcissistic because they make us indifferent to others. Despite the growing observation on phenomena of narcissism, people today experience loneliness and loss of meaning. Contemporary individualism, in the name of diversity, paradoxically eliminates all differences and over-pursues equality and homogeneity. The intolerance seems to be growing in the form of standardization, excessive pursuit of evidence, and exclusion of uncertain elements. In reaction, there arises strong reactionary aspiration for differences that allow reconfirming one’s identity. Global xenophobia and exclusionism can be regarded as attempts to reinforce identity by distinguishing differences. The structure observed in these phenomena is a pluralized conflict, where people defend their own positions with minor and unstable differences than the grand and selfevident one. Here, we can recognize the conflict characterized by what Freud called “the narcissism of minor differences.” To discuss the problem of “narcissism of minor differences” in clinical and social situations, this chapter first revisits the concept of narcissism from the perspective of Freudian-Lacanian psychoanalysis and Jungian analytical psychology. We can see today the overconsumption of this term and the oversimplification of social phenomena, categorizing lifestyles, new media, and even societies as narcissistic. Such overuse not only exploits its meaning but obscures the problem around it. So, it is necessary to correct the confusion about “narcissism” and give it a new definition. Then, we examine “narcissism of minor differences” proposed by Freud as a perspective for understanding contemporary phenomena. Characterized by aggression and rejection, this notion is thought to be opposed to love and solidarity and to have a segregative effect on the social bond and is therefore understood exclusively as pathological. Our redefinition, however, indicates that it is not necessarily pathological or destructive but rather contributes to the formation of identity and its stabilization in this unstable and liquid world.

What is narcissism? The myth of Narcissus, one of the most famous of the Greek myths, is often understood in the following way: a beautiful boy looks into the water and falls in love with his own reflection, which he cannot stop to stare, so ends up withering away. But careful reading allows us to understand it quite differently: Narcissus finds there not himself, but the strange other, which he regards the best partner, the ideal image, or the other as if to complement himself. We can recognize here not self-sufficiency nor autistic gratification but rather self-affirmation or selfexpansion through the other. Before psychoanalysis, the name Narcissus was taken up in sexology. In 1898, Havelock Ellis used the expression “Narcissus-like tendency” (1898, p. 280) to describe a phenomenon associated with autoerotism in sexual life. This tendency is thought to not be abnormal per se, but normal phenomena that may take on

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pathological forms. Then, Paul Näcke used the term Narzißmus for “the most serious form of ‘auto-erotism’” (1899, p. 146) when reporting the case of a male perversion who treated his own body as a sexual object. Based solely on medical and pathological perspective, he was interested in narcissism only as a pathological perversion. When Freud first remarked on narcissism in 1909, he referred to Isidor Sadger who was a member of the Wednesday Evening Society. In the presentation on male homosexuality at the meeting of that group on November 10, 1909, Sadger revealed the idea that “autoerotism in the form of narcissism” plays an important role in homosexuality and the love objects of male homosexuals have the same characteristics as their own (Nunberg & Federn, 1967, p. 307). Freud described this contribution as “new and valuable” (ibid., p. 312). It is in the footnote added in 1910 to Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality that the term narcissism appears in Freud’s work for the first time. In this paper, Freud points to “very intense but short lived fixation to a woman (usually their mother)” (1905, p. 145) as a cause of inversion and states that it leads to the identification with a woman and the choice of oneself as sexual object. As Freud later states, it is from his observation on patients who love themselves as the object of love that he has “the strongest of the reasons which have led us to adopt the hypothesis of narcissism” (1914, p. 88). It is necessary to emphasize here that Freud, unlike Näcke, does not consider the narcissistic type object-choice as abnormal and pathological. For Freud, the inversion is not abnormal but rather a key to question what is normal in sexuality. In the case of Schreber (1911), Freud rehashed this concept to illustrate the specificity of psychotic mechanism. Narcissism, which is later succinctly defined as “withdrawal of the object-libido into the ego” (1916–1917, p. 421), brings about a loss of reality and subjective experience of catastrophe, but this withdrawn libido is put to special use and allows to construct paranoiac delusion that serves as restoration of its relations with the external world. Further, narcissism is placed as “a stage in the development of the libido which it passes through on the way from auto-erotism to object-love” (1911, p. 60). In this direction, Freud emphasizes the importance of primary narcissism and attributes to it “a place in the regular course of human sexual development” (1914, p. 73). With “a new psychical action,” that is, the formation of the ego, primary narcissism gives form to autoerotism that is the vortex of libido. However, the idea that the ego functions as an object for the sexual drive abandons Freud’s original dualism between ego drive and sexual drive. Therefore, Freud introduces the distinction between ego-libido (narcissistic drive) and object-libido (object drive). We can understand that narcissism occupies a turning point in the development of Freudian drive theory. This new dualistic drive theory is also an objection to Jung, who emphasizes the nonsexual nature of libido and insists on a monistic view of libido. The confusion over Freudian dualism is finally resolved by introducing a dualism between the life drive and the death drive in Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920). Through the elaboration of the theory of melancholy, narcissism changes its status from a stage of development to a structural precondition for the ego formation. Furthermore, Freud advances his theory of ego; the ego is a part of the

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id that has been modified by its contact with reality. And, the ego contains the subject’s history of object-choices; in the process of renouncing an object which rejects the subject, thus does not satisfy its demand, a part of the ego identifies with that object. Freud calls this operation of setting up the object in the ego “alteration of the ego” (1923, p. 30). To summarize, the concept of narcissism is not well-defined and controversial because Freud discusses it with homosexuality (perversion), a normal phenomenon, and mechanism of psychosis, and withholds the conclusion about whether it is normal or pathological. Next, let’s address the narcissism of minor differences. This term first appears in The Taboo of Virginity (1918). Following the work of British anthropologist Ernest Crawley, Freud, in referring to anatomical differences between men and women, indicates that “it is precisely the minor differences in people who are otherwise alike that form the basis of feelings of strangeness and hostility between them,” and that it’s “tempting” to “derive from this ‘narcissism of minor differences’ the hostility which in every human relation we see fighting successfully against feelings of fellowship and overpowering the commandment that all men should love one another” (p. 199). Here, this notion explains the hostility and disdain of women by men. In Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego (1921), Freud examines the relationship between narcissism and aggression toward close others without referring to this term itself. Then, in Civilization and Its Discontents (1930), Freud states the following: “It is a convenient and relatively harmless satisfaction of the inclination to aggression, by means of which cohesion between the members of the community is made easier” (p. 114). Later, it is mentioned associated with anti-Semitism; “the intolerance of groups is often, strangely enough, exhibited more strongly against small differences than against fundamental ones” (1939, p. 91). Freud refers to this notion when discussing group psychology rather than individual psychology and regards generally as pathological. In contrast with Freud, Jung mentioned little about the concept of narcissism. According to Gordon (1980), in Jung’s writings, narcissism is mentioned only five times. Even if mentioned, it is used in a negative sense. This may be because narcissism is inseparable from the Freudian libido theory, which is the main cause of Jung’s defection from the psychoanalytical movement. However, some authors insist on Jung’s contribution to this concept. Satinover points out that it is “the true focus of Jung’s work” (1986, p. 402) and that it is reintroduced into Jungian vocabulary through the interest in the work of Heinz Kohut. Kohut’s work spreads the concept of narcissism in the United States and theoretically emphasizes its autonomy. According to Satinover, under the name of narcissism and self, modern psychoanalysis tackles the same problem as Jung did when he wrote Transformations and Symbols of the Libido, published originally in 1912. As for Lacanian conceptualization, Gilbert Diatkine points out, “What Lacan means by ‘the Imaginary’ has only an indirect relation to the imagination, but is above all an original idea of narcissism” (1997, p. 20). In the “mirror phase”

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theory, Lacan uniquely reinterprets the concept of narcissism with Henri Wallon’s developmental theory and Hegelian philosophy. According to Lacan (1966), a six-month-old child sees its own specular image and accepts it as its own. In this way, a child in a state of “fragmented body” (p. 97) due to “a veritable specific prematurity of birth” (ibid., p. 96) acquires bodily unity. In this “drama whose internal pressure pushes precipitously from insufficiency to anticipation” (ibid., p. 97), a child outsources the proper unity of its body to its external image, which its semblable or the other offers. The mirror phase is thus the basis for the “primordial jealousy” (ibid., p. 98) toward the other, particularly observable in paranoia or transitivism. Lacan employs the term primary narcissism to refer to the libidinal investment characteristic of this phase. In 1953, Lacan proposes the three registers, the Symbolic, the Imaginary, and the Real, in which the human reality is defined itself. He always thinks of narcissism with the Imaginary, that is, one’s relation to its own body. In his early teaching, Lacan defines narcissism as the fatal devotion to the specular image, which brings about the illusory unified totality of the ego and negatively assesses it. He insists that the narcissistic image of the ego should be reduced by the symbolic operation. However, when he introduces the theory of Borromean knot, which emphasizes the equivalence and autonomy of the three registers, Lacan begins to develop the concept of narcissism from a new perspective, which places narcissism and the Imaginary differently from the mirror phase theory.

Is narcissism really pathological? Following Freud’s argument on narcissistic neurosis (psychosis), we can recognize the pathology of narcissism in so-called “inaccessible patients,” that is, patients who develop non-neurotic transference: “Observation shows that sufferers from narcissistic neuroses have no capacity for transference or only insufficient residues of it” (1916–1917, p. 447). In these patients, libido is withdrawn from external objects and overinvested to the ego. Therefore, for Freud, the pathology of narcissism is at the level of secondary narcissism. Further, narcissism is considered on the one hand as a barrier to love for others and object relation and on the other as a model of object-choice (narcissistic object-choice). However, Freud seems to think that pathological narcissism and object relations are polarized: “This substitution of [narcissistic] identification for object-love is an important mechanism in the narcissistic affections” (1914, p. 249). In this way, narcissism is understood as a pathology of relationship, which expands beyond transference in analysis to broader interpersonal relationships. Then, this concept is also extended psychologically, so that it comes to include various characteristics associated with self-love, which Freud himself uses as its synonym: egoism, self-absorption, and excessive desire for recognition. What are the consequences of this conceptual extension? First, narcissism is misunderstood as self-sufficiency or self-gratification. This leads to the abandonment of the economic point of view and the drive theory. When Freud originally considers the pathology of narcissism, what is at stake is the excessive investment

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of libido into the ego that brings displeasure; thus to construct a therapeutic approach to it, it is important to consider how this excessive investment is processed. This perspective is lost when we grasp narcissism exclusively in terms of popular psychology. Moreover, this misunderstanding allows contemporary cultural criticism to use this concept as a handy tool. Here, narcissism is wrongly understood as a shelter from displeasure brought by the encounter with the external world or a primordial state full of pleasure. We can see this in Lasch’s argument, which emphasizes an association between the absence of authority and narcissism. However, in Freud’s definition, pleasure is the reduction of displeasure, and qualitative difference between them can only be established as the mental apparatus is driven by external contact. Above all, these understandings make “narcissism” a term to criticize others; instead of taking on our difficulties ourselves, we use this term to attribute them to others. Now, we turn to the positive aspects of narcissism. Kohut studies narcissism with the self and points out the two parallel lines of the development of the libido: narcissism and object-love. Narcissism and object-love are not considered to be opposed but rather complementary, as Kohut states, “There is no mature love in which the love object is not also a self-object” (1977, p. 122). Since the value system in Western civilization is so altruistic that we often overlook its contribution to mental health. In contrast, Kohut stresses narcissism and altruism can rather coexist. Narcissism is a normal part of the psychic life and is not relinquished in favor of object-love. Mario Jacoby, referring to Kohut’s work, points out “a correlation between the growing differentiation of the capacity for the empathy and the progressive maturation of narcissistic libido” (1985/2017, p. 90). The transformation of narcissism, that is, the redistribution of narcissistic libido, occurs in a way that fosters the maturation of personality in the psychic life. Martine Gallard also addresses the relationship between narcissism and the concept of persona, which is, according to her, a “social facade” (2009, p. 52) that can sometimes be pathological but not necessarily negative and functions as a point of contact with society. Here, we can recognize the proximity between Kohut’s maturation of the self through the development of narcissism and Jung’s individualization. While Kohut and Jungians emphasize the development and maturation of narcissism, which fosters adaptation to society, Freud rather focuses on its subversive aspect. Referring to the relationship between narcissism and humor, Freud points out that humor is “rebellious” (1928, p. 163). Also, art historian and critic Amelia Jones (1998), while radically rereading Freud’s claims about female narcissism, argues that narcissism can be used strategically to break down patriarchal representations of the female body. Freud describes narcissism in women as follows: “we attribute a larger amount of narcissism to femininity, which also affects a woman’s choice of object, so that to be loved is a stronger need for them than to love” (1933a, p. 132). This argument is generally less reputable because it links women’s narcissism with stronger envy and weaker social concern. Rather, Jones sees the positive side of narcissism here. Even more interesting is that, contrary

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to popular belief, Freud points out that narcissism attracts others, “it seems very evident that another person’s narcissism has a great attraction for those who have renounced part of their own narcissism and are in search of object-love. The charm of a child lies to a great extent in his narcissism, his self-contentment and inaccessibility” (1914, p. 89). Further, I would like to examine its relation to sublimation. In The Ego and the Id, Freud presents the idea that the mediation of the ego is necessary for sublimation to take place since it occurs when libido is desexualized and object-libido is transformed into narcissistic libido (1923, p. 45). In sublimation, what is at stake is not the investment into object, which characterizes idealization, but the investment into ego, which, as secondary narcissism, brings satisfaction to the ego in a non-straightforward way. Though Freud associates sublimation with the great works of art and literature, he never examines the factors that determine the ability to sublimate nor offers any criteria for distinguishing between geniuses and ordinary people. For that reason, today sublimation is considered a common psychical mechanism. Besides, given that social values cannot escape their unstable nature, the criteria for sublimation would be more pragmatic; sublimation consists of satisfaction brought by the detour. In their usages, narcissism and sublimation are both actions and efforts to create differences that are not anonymous or uniqueness to affirm oneself in relation to others, despite their divergence in conventional social values. Here, narcissism and sublimation come closer together. In this regard, I would like to refer to the concept of “escabeau” that Lacan proposed in his later teaching. Though it is generally translated as “stepladder,” we translate here as “soapbox” following Thomas Svolos (2017). A soapbox is a tool with which the speaking being promotes itself and establishes social bond. As it contains the spelling beau (beautiful), it concerns narcissism. Among Lacanians, it is referred to as “sublimation . . . in its intersection with narcissism” (Miller, 2015, p. 37) or called “another narcissism” (Soler, 2019, p. 164). It is another narcissism than the well-known Lacanian one in the mirror phase theory. With this concept, we examine narcissism as a matter of socialization and tackle the question of the difficulty of relating to oneself and others.

Narcissism and minor differences The new generation called the iGen is constantly exposed to comparisons with others on social media. However, this is not the case only for young people. Perpetual access to social media through digital devices compels us to compare ourselves with others endlessly and has negative effects on us (Schmuck et al., 2019); this is the pathology of our times when the traditional ideals have been lost. Now, let’s focus on the practice of selfie. This is often criticized as a pinnacle of narcissism because it is regarded as a way of living in a closed world, fascinated by one’s own image. However, it is not pathological in itself. Because it’s not just taking many photos rather reshooting several times and actively processing them until you’re satisfied, and then presenting them to others. So, we can regard it

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as the same old attempt to rectify the inconsistencies that appear in one’s own image; we’ve always done the same thing in different ways (consciously or unconsciously), and Freud explains it as the relationship between ego and ideal ego. However, there is a major difference from the past; it is not ideals but others that judge whether this attempt succeeds or fails. The formation and stabilization of identity by selfies do not rely on accepted common meanings nor ideals. We can recognize this in the fact that a huge number of new photos are uploaded on SNS every second. With minor differences, selfies have to attract and involve others to form the users’ identity. The practice of selfie is narcissistic in so far as narcissism concerns both self-promotion and construction of relationships with others. We can clearly see this twofold nature in the narcissism of minor differences. Glen Gabbard (1993) considers narcissism of minor differences with hate in love relationships. He points out that this concept “can be extended by recognizing the fundamental narcissistic need to preserve a sense of oneself as an autonomous individual” (p. 232). Minor differences in one’s love object may be experienced as a narcissistic injury. So, its perception causes disappointment as well as hate. However, such disillusion also serves as a defense against the anxiety of fusion to maintain one’s narcissism. We can find here the positive aspect of minor differences. The presence of similar others is often experienced as intrusive. This threat increases especially when one’s identity or sense of self is unstable. As a defense against such intrusion, perceived differences, even if it is minor, confirm the separation between oneself and others. It is not difference itself that is at stake here because self-definition by difference slips away and does not answer the question of what one is. One’s specular image is the most accessible instrument for self-promotion or self-presentation. Today, we are ceaselessly photographed and videoed from birth to death. The visual image becomes the primary of identity or bodily satisfaction. In the practice of selfie, however, one is not satisfied with reflecting one’s own figure in a mirror and staring at it; one actively tries to create new images. We can regard the practice of selfie as a manifestation of struggles to become a creator of one’s own body and values. But they can be so precarious. According to Lacan, the only possible relationship that a speaking being can have with its body is adoration (2005, p. 66). It comes from a belief of having a body, which can be confirmed primarily by body images. But the body image that you love as the closest to yourself, Lacan points out, is also a hole. In other words, it has no substantial support; the only support for the relationship between us and our body could be the social bond with others that creates a detour as a defense against the ruthlessness of the drive investment. Today, we are inserted into the pseudo-discourse such as the discourse of capitalism where the circuit of the drive is structured like a short-circuit. The practices that create detours through attracting and involving others is open-ended ways of surviving such situations. Expanding and complexifying the circuit of the drive might enable one to sublimate a detour and invent the Other incidental to one’s own satisfaction.

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We psychotherapists are also not immune to the burden of narcissism. Today, what is called psychologization or psychiatrization – tendency to explain every social phenomenon in the language of psychology and psychiatry – is underway. Psychotherapists are more and more expected to play important roles in social defense so that they write many books for the public and appear in the media to speak out. But what is the driving force behind these behaviors? To consider this point, we examine the relationship between psychotherapists and knowledge. As Lacan says, in therapeutic situations, the therapist or analyst is assumed as the subject supposed to know but destined to be dismissed from that position at the end of the treatment marked by the liquidation of transference. To borrow Freud’s words, analysis or healing is an “impossible” profession as well as “education and government” (1925, p. 273). The essence of our task is not to interfere with the patient’s or analysand’s work nor to exert our competence. That’s why Lacan uses the term “scabeaustration” (2001, p. 567), that is, castration of escabeau on the analyst’s work. Isn’t the fact that psychotherapy is a job without retribution is a hidden reason for the social exposure of psychotherapists? Beyond the narcissism of minor differences among schools or orientations of psychotherapy, we have to share this viewpoint and ask ourselves what value we find in our work.

Encountering differences challenges narcissism The concept of narcissism has been misunderstood and abused. Contrary to common belief, narcissism as well as sublimation is at the intersection of the individual and society. Encountering differences through others causes us to react in a variety of ways. Worrying about differences, we may fall into the pursuit of objects beyond our reach. Or, the pursuit of differences itself would lead to the denial and annihilation of others. In this regard, we can point out that the pursuit of difference is tied to fear of uniformity. Therefore, it is also important to be aware of that fear and accept the fact that you are, to some extent, the same as others. And yet, we continue to reconstruct our identity with minor differences. In addressing the question of narcissism, we must turn our attention to the way the present social bond is woven without any nostalgic resort to past ideals and authorities. Now is the time to challenge the genuine value of analytical practice as “intercourse” in which we interact with others and create something entirely new and different.

References Diatkine, G. (1997). Jacques Lacan. Collection Psychanalystes d’aujourd’hui. Paris: P.U.F. Ellis, H. (1898). Auto-erotism: A Psychological Study. Alienist and Neurologist, 19, 260–299. Freud, S. (1905). Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud [S.E], 7, 123–243. London: Hogarth.

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Freud, S. (1911). Psycho-Analytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia (Dementia Paranoides). S.E., 12, 1–82. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1914). On Narcissism: An Introduction. S.E., 14, 67–102. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1916–1917). Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis. S.E., 15–16. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1917). A Difficulty in the Path of Psycho-Analysis. S.E., 17, 135–144. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1918). The Taboo of Virginity (Contributions to the Psychology of Love III). S.E., 11, 191–208. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1920). Beyond the Pleasure Principle. S.E., 18, 7–64. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1921). Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego. S.E., 18, 65–143. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1923). The Ego and the Id. S.E., 19, 1–59. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1925). Preface to Aichhorn’s Wayward Youth. S.E., 19, 271–276. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1928). Humour. S.E., 21, 161–166. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1930). Civilization and Its Discontents. S.E., 21, 57–145. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1933a). New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis. S.E., 22, 1–182. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1933b). Why War? S.E., 22, 195–215. London: Hogarth. Freud, S. (1939). Moses and Monotheism. S.E., 23, 1–137. London: Hogarth. Gabbard, G. O. (1993). On Hate in Love Relationships: The Narcissism of Minor Differences Revisited. Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 62(2), 229–238. Gallard, M. (2009). L’en-deçà du narcissisme. Cahiers jungiens de psychanalyse, 128(1), 43–58. Gordon, R. (1980). Narcissism and the Self: Who Am I that I Love? Journal of Analytical Psychology, 25(3), 247–263. Jacoby, M. (1985/2017). Individuation and Narcissism: The Psychology of Self in Jung and Kohut. London: Routledge. Jones, A. (1998). Body Art, Performing the Subject. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Kohut, H. (1977). The Restoration of the Self. New York: International Universities Press. Lacan, J. (1966). Écrits. Paris: Seuil. Lacan, J. (2001). Autres écrits. Paris: Seuil. Lacan, J. (2005). Le séminaire de Jacques Lacan. Livre 23. Le Sinthome, 1975–76. Paris: Seuil. Lasch, C. (1978). The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Lunbeck, E. (2014). The Americanization of Narcissism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. McCain, J. L., & Campbell, W. K. (2018). Narcissism and Social Media Use: A Metaanalytic Review. Psychology of Popular Media Culture, 7(3), 308–327. Miller, J. A. (2015). The Unconscious and the Speaking Body. Scilicet: The Speaking Body. On the Unconscious in the 21st Century, 27–42. Paris: NLS Publications. Näcke, P. (1899). Die sexuellen Perversitäten in der Irrenanstalt. Psychiatrische en Neurologische Bladen, 3, 122–149. Nunberg, H., & Federn, E. (Eds.). (1967). Minutes of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society, Volume 2, 1908–1910. New York: International University Press.

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Satinover, J. (1986). Jung’s Lost Contribution to the Dilemma of Narcissism. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 34(2), 401–438. Schmuck, D., Karsay, K., Matthes, J., & Stevic, A. (2019). “Looking Up and Feeling Down”. The Influence of Mobile Social Networking Site Use on Upward Social Comparison, Self-esteem, and Well-being of Adult Smartphone Users. Telematics and Informatics, 42, 101240. Soler, C. (2019). Lacan, lecteur de Joyce. 2e edition augmentée. Paris: PUF. Svolos, T. (2017). The Twenty-First Century Psychoanalysis. London: Karnac. Twenge, J. M., & Campbell, W. K. (2009). The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement. New York: Free Press.

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Encountering the other world in Japanese Manga From Hyakki-yako-zu to pocket monsters Konoyu Nakamura

Introduction A Manga exhibition was held at the British Museum in 2019 and succeeded in attracting many visitors, although it also elicited criticism. This shows that Manga is an important global form of expression in modern times. I have studied famous Japanese anime and comics (Manga) from Jungian perspectives for the last several years (Nakamura, 2015, 2016a, 2016b, 2017, 2018). I have focused on how Japanese anime are grounded in Japanese traditions, archetypal images, and social dynamics. I have concluded that popular Japanese anime always provide important archetypal images related to the collective consciousness and unconsciousness. They provide rich material to explore the psyche and the Zeitgeist. Jung was a devout Christian throughout his life but he had a crisis of faith when he was young. He said, ‘I began to distrust Lord Jesus. He lost the aspect of a big, comforting, benevolent bird and became associated with gloomy men’ (Jung, 1961/1995, p. 25). This was his ‘first conscious trauma’ (ibid.). Soon afterward, he had his famous ‘man eater’ dream (ibid. p. 29), and through this he was ‘initiated into the secret of the earth. . . . My intellectual life had its unconscious beginnings at that time’ (ibid. p. 30). Clearly, he was attracted by this ‘secret of the earth’, the other world, and he bravely sought encounters with it. He listened to the voice of ‘God’s thoughts’ (Jung, 1902, p. 121) through animals, mountains, woods, rivers, glasses, and clocks. He explored the occult, spiritualism, ghosts, and monsters and found fruitful material in them for his theories. This became the starting point for what is now a huge academic field, which we call Jungian psychology. Like Jung, the Japanese have tended to see spirits in everything in the world, mountains, waterfalls, trees, rocks, animals, monsters, and strange phenomena. In this chapter I will introduce the roots of Japanese Manga and will focus on how monsters are represented in them, and how Japanese people relate to the other world.

Roots of Japanese Manga I would like to focus on three important traditional works to explain the roots of Japanese Manga. First, I want to mention Cho¯ju¯-jinbutsu-giga (wildlife

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Figure 6.1 A scene from Cho¯ju¯-jinbutsu-giga (wildlife caricatures) Volume Ko Source: Kosanji Temple, Photo by Berido

caricatures), thought to be ‘the oldest Manga’ (Figure 6.1). This is a series of picture scrolls in four (ko, otsu, hei, tei) volumes. Regarding the author, Komatsu proposes an abbot of Toba (1053–1140) (ibid.), but recently, scholars have concluded that the scrolls were gradually completed from the Heian era, in the twelfth century, to the Kamakura era, in the thirteenth century, by many anonymous priests. The ko scroll shows many scenes of court events, with personified frogs, rabbits, monkeys, and foxes enjoying themselves in amusing ways, like Mickey Mouse. You can find some lines from the mouth of a monkey priest which seem to show him chanting a sutra (Komatsu, 1994, pp. 40–41), prefiguring the speech bubbles in Manga. Also, these drawings caricature the lives of high-class people and priests and mildly critique social conditions, foreshadowing the satirical role of Manga. Next, I want to introduce Toba-e (comic pictures from the Edo era). These were published by Shunboku Ooka (1680–1763) in Osaka as well as by many other authors. They had characteristic human expressions, long limbs, and pointy eyes (Shimizu and Inomata, 2019, p. 4). The name Toba came from the legendary abbot of Toba, the putative author of Cho¯ju¯-jinbutsu-giga. But Toba-e covered a wider range of customs, legends, and natural histories. Here is one hellish scene: ‘In the hell pot’ (Figure 6.2) shows one sinner on the right trying to get into a pot while shouting ‘Eek!’, and a demon on the left gives him directions on how to do so smoothly, saying, ‘Jump, jump in, closing your legs’. The way to add words again prefigures the speech bubbles of Manga. And though this represents hell, we do not find awfulness or cruelty in it, rather it has humorous expressions. Though hell must be a horrible place, this picture provides humor rather than agony. Toba-e were popular throughout the Edo era and their humor became an important element of Manga.

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Figure 6.2 Shunboku Ooka (1720), ‘In the pot of hell’, in Keihitsu Toba Kuruma Source: Osaka Prefectural Nakanoshima Library

Figure 6.3 Katsushika Hokusai (1819) Facial Expressions in 6 frames, in Hokusamimanga Volume 10 Source: a private collection

Finally, I want to mention the Manga by Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849), a famous Ukiyoe painter. The name Manga comes from his works, the Hokusai Manga, a popular series consisting of 15 volumes with more than four thousand pictures, published from 1814 to 1878. These included caricatures, customs, landscapes, legends, natural histories, and monsters like Rokuro-kubi (longnecked woman) (Nagata, 2003, pp. 92–93). They used a series of frames to develop their dynamics and humor. Hokusai really understood how to make readers enjoy stories that included human movement (Shimizu and Inomata, 2019, p. 39). You can see very humorous expressions in each picture (Figure 6.3). By adopting frames, Hokusai widely expanded the expressive power of Manga, and

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this is why the Hokusai Manga have been called the foundation of modern Japanese Manga. Here we have seen the roots of speech bubbles, framing and mass consumption goods. Shimizu and Inomata note that ‘There were few nations that enjoyed caricatures and cartoons as merchandise in the middle of the nineteenth century, besides Great Britain, France and Japan. But the greatness of Japanese Manga had already been established in the Edo era’ (2019, p. 65).

Monsters in traditional works What is a monster? Kazuhiko Komatsu, a social anthropologist who studies Japanese monsters, says that it is difficult to give a simple answer to this question, but it often refers to a mysterious, strange, spooky phenomenon or existence, brought about by the supernatural (Komatsu, 2011, p. 10). This recalls the mysterious phenomena that Jung experienced with his mother and sister at their house in 1898, during his student years. They heard loud sounds, tables cracking, and found a broken knife, and his mother responded by saying, ‘Yes, yes, that means something’(Jung, 1961/1995, pp. 125–128). As Europeans even in the nineteenth century believed in such things, it is natural that Japanese in ancient times did so. From the first, Japan’s original religion, Shintoism, was based on animism, the notion that ‘gods reside in everything’. ‘Everything has a soul or spirit’ (Shimizu and Inomata, 2019, p. 2). ‘Japanese people favor pictures of monsters and ghosts and have produced innumerable versions of these’ (Shimizu and Inomata, 2019, p. 2). One figure often associated with violent or tragic death is Sugawara Michizane (845–903), a noble in the Heian period, who died in deep despair due to political conflicts. After his death, many disasters occurred in the capital, Kyoto, and in the court. People thought that these disasters were caused by his resentful spirit, so they built a shrine, Kitano Tenjin, to appease him and to heal his wounded soul. Later, he was admired as a god of learning. This story is recorded in many highly artistic picture scrolls, even three hundred years after his death. What I want to stress here is that real people became gods or monsters with dual natures, leading to both benefits and disasters (Komatsu, 1999/2017, p. 87). Clearly, belief in the supernatural was commonplace. Furthermore, in Japanese culture, objects, ordinary household things, can be spirits after long use; these are called ‘tsukumo-gami ’ (artifact spirits). We find some beautiful examples of these in Hyakki-yako-zu (The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons), thought to be by Tosa Mitsunobu (1434–1525) in the sixteenth century, the Muromachi era. This scroll does not have any words, but it has three notable elements: 1) tsukumo-gami appear; 2) they hold festivals and parades (see Figure 6.4); and 3) they are cursed by fire or sunrise. In the story, when these long-used objects are thrown away, they get angry with people and behave like devils, but they enjoy their festivals, and they are truly penitent, following Buddhist teachings. One reason these scrolls proliferated after the Muromachi era is that science, technology, and productivity developed at the time, and many new tools were

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Figure 6.4 A part of Hyakki-yako-zu, by Mitsunori Tosa, in the sixteenth century Source: Shinjuan Temple

invented. Shibusawa notes, ‘With the progress of technology, complicated tools are produced, and these become the residence of new spirits. . . . These tools naturally become their residence instead of nature’ (1999/2017, p. 78). But these have no strong spiritual power like the ones in ancient times nor do they threaten people, because they are man-made things. People enjoy Tsukumo-gami drawn by skillful artists as beautiful and charming arts rather than as terrifying images. Modern Japanese Manga include many such anthropomorphic objects. In the Edo era, people enjoyed commercially produced pictures and stories of monsters, ghosts, and spirits with the development of woodblock prints. As these replaced scrolls, some of the older figures were lost or they became a kind of encyclopedic catalogue of monsters (Tanaka, 1999/2017, p. 32). These were humorous rather than fearsome. Such spirits do no harm to people, unlike those in the Middle Ages. Also, in the Edo era, innumerable new monsters were created, for example, Tofukozo (Tofuboy) in Kyouka-hyaku-monogatari (A hundred comic stories), by Ryukansai in 1853 (Figure 6.5). Tofukozo is a small and gentle boy who delivers tofu and follows people on rainy nights; he does not do evil things, and he is always afraid to drop his tofu (Kyougoku and Tada, 2008, p. 289). He was apparently created in about 1772 to advertise a tofu shop. Such monsters became sources of ‘intellectual play in the city’ (ibid. p. 11) and were primarily just for fun. As Shimizu and Inomata have pointed out, in the Edo era, people enjoyed a lot of commercial Manga (2019, p. 65), and monsters were very popular material.

Monsters in Manga in modern times After the Meiji restoration, Japan quickly imported Western knowledge, technologies, and culture, including art. Many cheap comics were published for children due to the development of printing technology. Monsters are still popular, of course, but I would like to introduce only one, Gegege no Kitaro, by Shigeru Mizuki (1922–2015). This appeared in Shonen Magazine, a weekly comic book

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Figure 6.5 Ryukanjin Masazumi (1853) Tofukozo, in Tenmei Roujin (ed.) Kyouka Hyakumonogatari Source: Toyo University Library

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for boys, from 1960 to 1964, and was published in book form from 1964 to 1966. Like other popular figures, Gegege no Kitaro spread to television, films, games, and related goods (Shimizu and Inomata, 2019, p. 256). Mizuki established a unique genre of monsters (ibid). Kitaro is a one-eyed boy, a survivor of ghosts (Figure 6.6). His lost left eye transforms into his father, who

Figure 6.6 Mizuki, S. (2004) Kitaro and his mates, from Kitaro Dai Hyakka [Great Encyclopedia of Kitaro] Source: Shogakukan

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lives in a graveyard with other gentle ghosts, Rat man, Cat girl, Old lady throwing sand, A bolt of cotton, and Old man crying like a baby. Mizuki added cute characters to traditional Japanese monsters (ibid.). None of his monsters has a strong evil power. It is interesting that Kitaro’s character changed as he became more popular. Originally, he had good, bad, and weak points, but later he became a hero of justice (ibid., p. 244) and, with his mates, fought evil monsters who caused disasters among humans. Here, we see how monsters become safe for people. After three decades of Kitaro, at last, Japanese monsters expanded into virtual space in electronic games. In 1989, Pokemon pocket monsters appeared, produced by Nintendo. According to Allison, in the world of Pokemon the basic concept is an imaginary universe inhabited by wild monsters that children capture, then keep in balls in their pockets. Whether a child is playing the game or following the story through Manga, anime, or movies, the structure of an encounter with the wild and fantastic is replayed through the ritual of “pocketing” the Other. In this play world, with its magical topography of towns, forests, and caves, live 151 pokemon, and the goal of the game is to capture them all. (2006, pp. 196–197) This became popular and immediately appeared in mixed media, comic books, card games, TV programs, and films. Pokemon’s designer, Tajiri Satoshi, crafted the game with matches (taisen), exchanges (kokan) and fostering. The rules were so simple that players could behave freely, actively using their imagination to communicate with other players (ibid., pp. 197–199). In addition, the kawaisa (cuteness) of the main character, Pikachu, fascinated children. As Napier mentions about Sailor Moon, cuteness has become the most important element in Japanese Manga (2005, p. 7), and this reassures parents, who become involved as well, readily allowing their children to play the game. In sum, Pokemon not only includes all the pleasant elements of traditional monsters but adds the chance to build ‘relationships’ (ibid. p. 201) in a fantastic world.

Discussion Finally, I would like to explore the meaning of the other world and monsters, not for children, but for young adults in modern times. Komatsu defines the other world as one beyond our ordinary world. He divides it into two dimensions: time and space (2010, p. 4). In terms of time, it exists before our birth and after our death, and in terms of space, it exists outside, for example, the rest room at school, the basement of a house, and generally beyond any village, town, city, or country, far from the mundane. It exists in places that are dangerous, attractive, and mystical. So, when people are in such a place, they feel excited and afraid, and they can experience mystical healing powers that allow them to overcome the travails of the real world and to comfort themselves. Vulnerable people tend to need such places.

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Jung, of course, often used to inhabit such a world in his school years (Hayman, 1999, p. 32). Jung describes this as follows: [W]hen I was “there,” I was no longer alone, I was outside time; I belonged to the centuries; and He who gave answer was He who had always been, who had before my birth. He who was always there. These talks with “Others” were my profound experiences: on the one hand a bloody struggle, on the other supreme ecstasy. (Jung, 1961/1999, p. 65) Monsters are residents in the other world. As we have seen, Japanese monsters have historically proliferated and come to serve people’s needs. This began with natural things and phenomena, then real people who died with deep resentment, then ordinary objects, and at last progressed to new monsters created for fun. We have seen how Kitaro protects people from evil monsters, and Pikachu is a cute and faithful mate. As monsters have become more benign, their connection to philosophy or religion has declined. Regarding this trend, Allison notes that unlike ‘the common Euro-American worldview – where humans are the center of existence and the distinction between life and death is more defnitively conceived’ (2006, p. 21), ‘this [Japanese style] is more an aesthetic proclivity, a tendency to see the world as animated by a variety of beings, both worldly and otherworldly, that are complex, (inter) changeable, and not graspable by socalled (or visible) means alone’ (ibid., p. 12). Indeed, it is highly important for Japanese that otherworldly images have a strong aesthetic impact. All the works which I have introduced in this chapter were created by skillful and talented authors and painters. They are truly fine art! Jung heard women’s voices during his struggle with his unconsciousness saying ‘It is art’, and he was astonished (Jung, 1995, p. 210). However, Japanese easily and fearlessly communicate with their unconsciousness through art infused with humor, and this is not a lonely task like Jung’s but achieved through collectivism. Partly this is because Japanese monsters have been developed through commercialism. Monsters were only for high-class people in the early scrolls, but in the Edo era ordinary people could enjoy them with the advent of cheap woodprints. This went along with increased secularism, commercialism, and a high literacy rate, 80%. In modern times monsters have expanded into cyberspace too, where everyone can easily access them. About Pokemon, Allison says, ‘what makes it at once a container of the past and a medium for millennial relation-building are the pocket monsters themselves: creatures that broker the border between the practical, everyday, capitalistic and the fantastic, extraordinary, communitarian’ (Allison, 2006, p. 221). This is connected to the fact that the real lives of Japanese are so suffocating. ‘Japanese spend more and more time alone, forming intimacies less with one another than with goods they consume and technology they rely upon (ibid.)’. By playing this game, children can escape from the suffering they endure due to strong pressure for academic achievement and its concomitant ‘solitarism’ (ibid.). In other words, Japanese monsters have become beloved mates for

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children, and even for adults, helping to heal their psychic wounds through communication in the other world, inviting people to a fantastic world to heal them with humor. Jung notably said, ‘Do you believe, man of this time, that laughter is lower than worship? Where is your measure, false measure? The sum of life is decided in laughter and in worship, not your judgement’ (Jung, 2009, p. 122). I believe that this is the reason Japanese monsters in Manga are accepted in many countries where traditional religions have gradually lost their influence.

References Allison, A. (2006) Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination (Asia: Local Studies / Global Themes Book 13) (English Edition) 1st. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hayman, R. (1999) A Life of Jung. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company. Jung, C. G. (1995) Memories, Dreams, Reflections. London: Fontana Press. Jung, C. G. (2009) The Red Book: A Reader’s Edition. New York and London: Philemon Series, W.W. Norton & Company. Katsushika Hokusai (1819) Facial Expressions in 6 frames in Hokusami-manga Volume 10, from a private collection. Komatsu, K. (1999/2017) ‘Kibutu no Yokai tsukumo gami wo megutte’ [Monstrous Things about Tsutumo-gami], in Tanaka, T., Hanada, K., Shibusawa, T., and Komatsu, K. (eds.), Zusetsu Hyakki Yakou Emaki wo Yomu [Reading ‘The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons’ with Pictures]. Tokyo: Kawade-shobo-shinsha. Komatsu, K. (2010) Youkaiemaki Nihon no Ikai wo nozoku Bessatsu Taiyo Nihonjin no Kokoro 170 [Monsters’ scroll Looking into the other world in Japan, Separate Vokume Japanese psyche 170]. Tokyo: Heibonsya. Komatsu, K. (2011) Youkaigaku no Kisotishiki [Basics of Monster Study]. Tokyo: Kadokawa Sensho. Komatsu, S., ed. (1994) Cho¯ju¯-jinbutsu-giga [Wildlife Caricatures]. Tokyo: Chuokoronsya. Kyougoku, N., and Tada, K. (2008) Youkaigahon Kyoukahyakumogatari [Picture Book of Monsters A Hundred Stories of Comic Tanka]. Tokyo: Kokushokannkoukai. Mizuki, S. (2004) Kitaro Dai Hyakka [Great Encyclopedia of Kitaro]. Tokyo: Shogakukan. Nagata, S. (2003) Hokusaimanga Vol. 3. Tokyo: Kabushikigaisya Tokyobijutu. Nakamura, K. (2015) ‘Sailor Moon, Feminine Images and Social Status’, Presentation at the Fourth Joint Conference of the International Association for Jungian Studies, Yale University, July 11, 2015. Nakamura, K. (2016a) ‘Sailor Moon: The Moon as Healing Power for the Earth’. Presentation at the 2016 JSSS Conference, Earth/Psyche: Foregrounding the Earth’s Relations to Psyche, La Fonda Hotel, Santa Fe, New Mexico, June 26–29, 2016. Nakamura, K. (2016b). ‘Archetypal Images in Japanese Anime: Space Battleship Yamato (Star Blazers)’, in Broderson, E., and Glock, M. (eds.) Phoenix Rising. New York: Routledge, 207–218. Nakamura, K. (2017). ‘One Piece: The Dream of Freedom as the “Other”’, Presentation at the 2017 JAJS Conference in South Africa – The Spectre of the “Other” in Jungian Psychology, Centre for the Book, Cape Town, June 28. Nakamura, K. (2018) ‘One Piece: Diversity and Borderlessness’, Presentation at the 2018IAAP/ JAJS Conference on Indeterminate States: Trans-cultural, Trans-racial, Trans-gender, Frankfurt, Germany.

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Napier, S. J. (2005) Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle: Experiencing Contemporary Japanese Animation. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ryukanjin Masazumi (1853) ‘Tofukozo [Tofu Boy]’, in Tenmei Roujin (ed.), Kyouka Hyakumonogatari [A Hundred Comic Stories]. Source: Toyo University Library. Shibusawa, T. (1999/2017) ‘Tsukumogami’, in Tanaka, T., Hanada, K., Shibusawa, T., and Komatsu, K. (eds.), Hyakkiyakou Emaki wo yomu Zusetsu Hyakkiyako Emaki wo Yomu [Reading ‘The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons’ with Pictures]. Tokyo: Kawade Shobo Shinsha, 73–86. Shimizu, I., and Inomata, N. (2019) Nihon no Mangahon 300 nen – toba-e hon kara comic hon made-[300 Years of Japanese Comic Books-from Toba-e to Comics]. Kyoto: Minerva Shobo. Shunboku Ooka (1720) ‘In the Pot of Hell’, in Keihitsu Toba Kuruma. Source: Osaka Prefectural Nakanoshima Library. Tanaka, T. ‘Hyaki-yako-zu ha naomo kataru’ [Hyaki-yako-Zu tells more] in Tanaka, T., Hanada, K., Shibusawa, T., and Komatsu, K. (1999/2017) Zusetsu Hyakki Yako Emaki wo Yomu [Reading ‘The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons’ with Pictures]. Tokyo: Kawade-shobo-shinsha. Tosa Mitsukuni. Hyakki-yako-zu (Muromachi-era, 16th) [The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons]. Source: Shinjuan Temple.

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Ancient Chinese Hieroglyph Archetype of transformation of Jungian psychology and its clinical implication Adelina Wei Kwan Wong

Archetype Since the beginning of the twentieth century, intellectuals have paid much more attention to the unconscious realm of the human psyche and regarded it as an essential part of the totality of human being. Sigmund Freud, a pioneer of Depth Psychology, suggested that human primal fantasies are a residue of specific memories of prehistoric experiences which exist, often buried, in the human psyche. One of his students Carl Jung, the founder of Analytical Psychology, further suggested that the human psyche contains individual predestinations manifested in “Archetype of the human psyche” which are introspectively recognizable forms of a priori psychic orderedness (Jung, CW 9 1959). Jung conceived the archetypes as universal primordial images in archaic forms; they are the psychic counterpart of physiological instinct. The archetypal structure, preexisting as an invisible dynamic substratum in the unconscious realm common in humanity, predisposes human beings toward certain experiences. It evolves the themes of different life stages such as being parented, initiation, courtship, marriage, parenting, aging, and preparation for death.

Archetype and civilization Because psychic dynamics are invisible, psychologists recognize archetypal patterns by researching myths, fairy tales, and dreams (Jung CW 9; von Franz 1970, 1997), as myths and fairy tales are oral tradition in written forms that represent accumulated human primal behaviors collectively across generations. Their motifs express the archetypal pattern of human life in general and interpret the human personality as a potential wholeness, with the Archetype of Self organizing and ordering different parts of the personality throughout one’s life. During the past century, many Jungian analysts interpreted the myths and fairy tales (von Franz 1970, 1997; Stein, M. et al. 1991) to identify the archetypal patterns around events universally found in human life: birthing and parenting, rebellion of an adolescent at puberty, initiation of a young adult, union of opposite sex at marriage, aging, and dying. Different roles appearing in the myth depict the various personality aspects of the protagonist: hero and villain, endearing Madonna and devouring witch, king and queen, agents of change like

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the sorcerer and fairy mother, wise old man, trickster, etc. All these imaginative representations of primordial origin are illustrated in the stories from ancient civilizations of both Western and Eastern origins. They are often interpreted through the lens of logic. Another type of archetypal pattern is recognized by intuitive psychological functions than by logical interpretation. This type of archetype in form of imagery is also embedded in human psyche. These archetypal imageries are typically natural or cultural phenomena such as animal, house, tree, sun, circle, cloud, etc. Their artistic presentation appears in various forms which are recognized intuitively, like the prehistoric cave paintings. Since ancient Chinese pictographic script or Chinese Hieroglyph (hereafter called Hieroglyph)1 is a form of imagery representation of objects or movements found in nature, with its archaic representation embedded in the psyche of those who are versed in Chinese written characters which are derived from Hieroglyph, I hypothesize the Hieroglyph can be a form of archetypal pattern, similar to the archetypal themes of the myths and fairy tales. To test this hypothesis, I pioneered two researches using clinical expressive materials, sandpictures and drawings, created by patients who are well versed in Chinese written characters. The therapeutic modes for the patients with early-life traumas often involve nonverbal expression and imagination like body movement, imagery painting, or Sandplay with 3D images on the sand (Ryce-Manuhin 1992; Bradway, K. & McCoard, B. 1997; Kalff 2003; Malchiodi 2014). All these are means for the patients to access the instinctual emotions of their “wounded inner child,” to create images embodying the emotions, and to be acknowledged by the consciousness. The first research uncovered forms of Hieroglyphs which not only resemble the clinical expressive art materials created by two patients but also elucidate their inner psychic states (Wong 2016a, 2016b). I conducted further research on relationships between Hieroglyph and archetypal pattern by using one patient’s (named Ada) expressive materials which were created during her psychic transformative process of 18 months. I identified nine hieroglyphic resemblances: two from sandpictures and seven from drawings. All these nine Hieroglyphs highlight the trajectory junctures of Ada’s psychic transformative process in sequential pattern which facilitate treatment (Wong 2018). Here I illustrate eight sequential expressive works of Ada from Figure 7.1 to Figure 7.8 and their resembling Hieroglyphs from H1to H8 in Figure 7.9.2 Here are the archetypal significances of these hieroglyphic imageries in the psychic transformative sequential process: Hui (Return, H1) was the hieroglyph appearing twice in this transformative process, in Figure 7.1 and again in Figure 7.5. It depicted the two pivotal turning points of the process, like the tilting of the earth on its course at the winter and summer solstices. The first return was the first critical moment of Ada’s psychological process: confronting her shadow. When Ada faced her authentic self that was hidden behind the seemingly strong persona, huang (death in big water, H2) appeared. She was overwhelmed by false self-beliefs, like the flooding of the big water. Under the flood of the big water, yi

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Figure 7.1 Ada’s sandpicture comprised two concentric circles of animals, representing the two layers of her psyche. Her innermost unconscious layer of self was emerging in the sandplaying process. The Hieroglyph (H1) is Hui, meaning return

(playing the game of chess, H3) appeared. Ada worked hard at discerning, sorting, and choosing what to retain and what to discard from her personality, as if she played the chess game with her fate. Afterward li (standing on one’s ground, H4) appeared. This Hieroglyph also refers to the autonomy that one can attain when one comes of age. After Ada stood her ground, hui (return, H5) appeared the second time. The reappearance of this hieroglyph indicated the emergence of another critical moment in the psychological process: acknowledging her wounded inner child. Ada drew a little child to represent her past traumatic self. Returning to this little child suggested that Ada acquired a new attitude toward herself, from rejecting to acknowledging, from ignoring to validating. an (calmness, H6) appeared to indicate the peaceful settlement of Ada’s authentic self under the shelter, which was followed by hen (scar, marking, H7) as the evidence of the victorious warfare fought by the heroine. The scars were the memories of past traumas. Finally, nian (remembering, H8) appeared. It represented an internal dialogue in Ada’s heart as wishes to terms eventually with the past traumas (Wong 2018, p. 70).

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Figure 7.2 Depicts the loss of identity represented by the blank faces. The ground where Ada stood was overwhelmed with the flood of negative emotions – fear and failure. The Hieroglyph (H2) is huang 巟, meaning death in big water

Figure 7.3 Shows Ada playing a chess game with someone that might be herself or her fate. The Hieroglyph (H3) is yi 弈, which means playing a game of chess. This Hieroglyph encapsulates the idea of this picture, shows the sweating of the armpit at the upper part and the hardworking of two hands at the lower part

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Figure 7.4 Shows Ada standing upright after the uncertain time. The Hieroglyph (H4) is Li 立, which means standing up on firm ground

Figure 7.5 The arrow line on the sandpicture contrasts with the Hieroglyph (H5) hui 回 in inverted Bronze Inscription, which also means return

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Figure 7.6 Shows Ada’s felt sense of being embraced by the warmth of the Spirit like a descending dove anointing her head. The Hieroglyph (H6) is an 安, which means calmness and security

Figure 7.7 Portrays Ada’s depleted and wounded self, lying in bed with a red cross on her chest. The Hieroglyph (H7) is hen 痕, which means scar and marking

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Figure 7.8 Shows Ada’s heart covered by her tears like a protective veil. The Hieroglyph (H8) is nian 念, which means thoughts of the heart

Figure 7.9 Calligraphy

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From the above interpretation, these eight Hieroglyphs not only elucidated Ada’s psychic images but also depicted certain critical trajectory moments of the transformative process in Ada. Moreover, when they appeared in a sequence, they revealed the archetypal pattern of transformation of the human psyche.

Conclusion: future research orientation From the aforementioned researches, there are strong evidence to suggest that the imageries of Hieroglyph may already be embedded in the psyche of those who are familiar with Chinese language. These imageries may emerge from the unconscious realm synchronizing with the clinical expressive art materials created by the patients when their therapeutic process reaches such in-depth level. Preliminary finding suggested that Hieroglyphs from clinical expressive arts materials not only reveal the singular psychic state at a particular moment, they also correspond to the psychodynamic sequence of a single patient during the healing process. The clinical researches presented here are based on the expressive art materials of the patients who suffered from early attachment trauma. More researches are needed to depict Hieroglyphs from the artworks of the victims of different intense human traumatic life process such as abortive birthing, refugee migration, and interracial conflicts. Since the subjects are Chinese patients familiar with Chinese written characters, further studies are necessary to ascertain whether such Hieroglyphic psychic imageries can be emerged from the Korean and Japanese who are also influenced by ancient Chinese scripts. There are also three further possible lines of enquiry: 1. Is it possible that the Chinese Hieroglyph imageries be identified from clinical materials of patients with no knowledge of Chinese written language? This exploration would examine the universality of this class of archetypal imagery from Chinese Hieroglyph. 2. Can other forms of ancient hieroglyphs, such as the Egyptian or the Mayan, serve a similar functional link to the deep psychological dynamics as the Chinese Hieroglyphs do here? 3. If one draws the Chinese Hieroglyphs in a freewheeling way, for example, using Chinese brush and ink in cursive style, will this experience access to one’s unconscious realm? Whatever the outcome, further research may lead to many interdisciplinary discussions between Depth Psychology and Sinology, Linguistic, and Ancient Civilization. It is hope that such a quest may further our understanding of human psyche, still a great mystery to all.

Notes 1 Hieroglyph literally means “sacred carving” in Greek and originally used to denote pictographic script of ancient Egypt and later to pictorial scripts in other cultures, such as the ancient Chinese pictographic script found in oracle bones or bronze vessels around 1000–1500 B.C. Current Chinese characters are developed from it. 2 Figures 7.1 to 7.8 are reproductions of the original clinical materials by this author. Figure 7.9 is the author’s own calligraphy.

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References Bradway, K., & McCoard, B. (1997) Sandplay: Silent Workshop of the Psyche, Routledge, London and New York. Jung, C.G. (1959) CW 9 Part I: Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Bollingen Serier XX, Princeton University Press, New York. Kalff, D. (2003) Sandplay: A Psychotherapeutic Approach to the Psyche, Temenos Press: Hotspring, AR. Malchiodi, C.A., & Crenshaw, D.A., ed. (2014) Creative Arts and Play Therapy for Attachment Problems, The Guildford Press: New York City. Ryce-Manuhin, J. (1992) Jungian Sandplay: The Wonderful Therapy, Routledge, London and New York. Stein, M. (1991) Psyche’s Stories, Volume one, Chiron Publication: Wilmette, Illinois. von Franz, M. (1970) The Interpretation of Fairy Tales, C.G. Jung Foundation Book, Penguin Random House: London. ———. (1997) The Archetypal Patterns in Fairy Tales, Inner City Books: Scarborough, ON, Canada. Wong, A. (2016a) “The Clinical Significance on the Interaction between the Patients’ Expressive Materials and the Chinese Ancient Hieroglyphs,” Japanese Journal of Jungian Psychology: Practice and Clinical Issues, Vol. 2, No. 1: 5–15. ———. (2016b) “クライエントの表現的な素材と中国古代象形文字の間の相互 関係 における臨床的な意味について,”Japanese Journal of Analytical Psychology, Vol. 8. ———. (2018) “Ancient Chinese Hieroglyphs: Archetype of Transformation,” Jung Journal: Culture and Psyche, Vol. 12, Issue 3: 55–74.

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The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi Dreams, visions, and his youth Jun Kitayama

Introduction St. Francis of Assisi, who was a famous Italian Catholic friar in the Middle Ages, was born and lived in Assisi, a town in central Italy. His way of life and thoughts hold true for the 21st century. From the perspective of nature and animal rights, he may be regarded as a patron of ecology. His prayer of peace, namely, the Prayer of St. Francis, epitomizes his spirit of conversing with those with divergent views. Similar to the 12 apostles of Christ, Francis’ followers respected his way of life. He was involved in mission work in which he helped pagans, specifically Muslims in Syria. Furthermore, he extended his friendship to his enemies. In 2013, when Fr. Jorge Mario Bergoglio of Argentina was elected as the Pope, he chose Francis as his papal name in honor of St. Francis of Assisi. Pope Francis’ choice signifies that St. Francis’ spirit lives on and is accepted in society at present. In Japan, where the author is living, combined Catholic and Protestant denominational membership is about 1% of the population (Ellwood, 2008). Nevertheless, a Japanese priest, Kadowaki (2014), values Francis as the most fascinating saint for the Japanese. For Japanese psychologists, St. Francis is well known for a comparison with the Buddhist monk Myoe by Japanese Jungian analyst Hayao Kawai, who has suggested that there are certain similarities between them (Kawai, 1995; Kawai, 2004; Kawai and Pittau, 2005). Both St. Francis and Myoe lived during the same period; while Myoe was born in 1173 and died in 1232, St. Francis was born in either 1181 or 1182 and died in 1226. Most important is that both had a sincere attitude toward prayer or fundamental religiousness. In addition, dreams were important for them. During his life, Myoe recorded his dreams. While St. Francis did not keep a record of his dreams, biographies reveal that his religious life was influenced by various dreams and visions. Kawai (2004) mentions that “Saint Francis was inspired by his dreams, especially the dream that came to him when he was to receive Holy Orders.” The present chapter focuses on the dreams and visions of St. Francis and tries to understand his early life. Francis is one of the most prominent saints and remains relevant to the present day; nonetheless, he used to be a worldly person in his youth. Spiritual transformation had happened for him. The purpose of this study is to examine the psychological process of his conversion. Furthermore, change is an inevitable component of human life. Naturally, many changes occur in my own life, which

The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi 85 may be lengthy and difficult. As a clinical psychologist, I accompany clients during the changes they encounter. Therefore, I am interested in the process of St. Francis’s conversion from the perspective of a profound transformation. To explore these themes, first of all I cite some of St. Francis’s biographies as source material on his younger life.1 I mainly use the ones written by his disciples in the 13th century not long after his death, and I also refer some biographies that have been published recently. Then, I examine and discuss the life of him and try to understand the characteristics of his conversion process.

Conversion According to the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (2011), the word convert may be defined in various ways: first, changing something into another form, substance, state, or product; second, changing the use, function, or purpose of something to that of another; and third, adopting a particular religion, faith, or belief. It is evident that St. Francis’s conversion was related to the third way of defining the term. A consideration of the first two definitions implies that religious conversion is a dynamic process of change. From a religious psychology point of view, James (1902) defines that “a man is ‘converted’ means, in in these terms, that religious ideas, previously peripheral in his consciousness, now take a central place, and that religious aims form the habitual center of his energy.”2 Moreover, James explained that “when the new center of personal energy has been subconsciously incubated so long as to be just ready to open into flower, ‘hands off’ is the only word for us, it must burst forth unaided!” It seems that the centering of someone’s religious idea is a natural process, not a forced one. It is believed that Francis’s conversion occurred intuitively and instantaneously by divine revelation in the form of dreams and visions. From a religious and propagation of the Christian faith perspective, it is a reasonable and meaningful explanation for praying to God. Le Goff (2004a) notes: It is noteworthy that, despite the character of sudden illumination, of instant transformation that a conversion always takes on in a hagiography, that of Saint Francis, according to Thomas (of Celano, added by the author), extended over four or five years and followed a progressive development in several stages. That is to say, Francis’s process of conversion was a gradual one. Le Goff (2004b) added that Francis’ human and saintly qualities as well as his weaknesses and personal defects were all part of him. The saint did not become holy automatically. Sakaguchi (2001) explains that the conversion of Francis comprised three stages: taking care of lepers, listening to the sacred order to restore the Church of San Damiano, and conviction at a Mass at Portiuncula that Christ wanted him to be a missionary. Iyoku (2019) observes that it is correct that St. Francis took a long time to complete his conversion. One may deduce from these opinions that St. Francis’ conversion was a lengthy process that involved a number of steps.

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From the aforementioned opinions, St. Francis’s conversion may not have occurred in a direct and linear manner. Tokuda (2000) claimed that research of conversion should not be limited to the study of conversion phenomena, in a broad sense, should be the study of humans. From a similar standpoint, I have endeavored to examine how his sense of values, attitudes, and whole life changed. To explore this theme, I will adopt three aspects from some biographies of St. Francis; the dreams and visions that Francis had, his encounter with leprosy, and his relationship with his real father.

Saint Francis’s early life There are various theories regarding when St. Francis was born; while some believe he was born in 1181, others are of the view it was in 1182. His father, Pietro di Bernardone, was a rich merchant, and his mother’s name was Pica. His early life is described in The Legend of Three Companions:3 When he grew up, endowed with clever natural abilities, he pursued his father’s profession, that of a merchant. He was, however, vastly different from his father. He was more good-natured and generous, given over to revelry and song with his friends, roaming day and night throughout the city of Assisi. He was most lavish in spending, so much so that all he could possess and earn was squandered on feasting and other pursuits. (Chapter 1–2) According to The First Life of St. Francis by Thomas of Celano,4 young Francis was “displaying nothing of the Christian religion in their own lives and conduct, they content themselves with just the name of Christian.” Jorgensen (1913) describes Francis as a bad-mannered person, such as “in talking their meals together, eating well, drinking better, and fnally in high spirits going through the streets of the city arm in arm, singing at the top of their voices, and disturbing the slumbers of the citizens.” Besides Le Goff (2004a) wrote that the young Francis gave no inkling of his future, and he was a fast liver and spendthrift. Even though these episodes may contain some exaggerations by characteristics of hagiography, a not good person became a good one, and young Francis did not have to be a strait-laced person. At the same time, young Francis was wanted to be a knight and to acquire military achievements. In 1202, The war between Perugia and Assisi had started. During the war, Francis, at about 20 years old, was caught and spent a year in prison in Perugia until being ransomed. After joining the war, he was caught and taken prisoner. During his captivity in 1204, he suffered from a long illness. This is the scene in The First Life of St. Francis by Thomas of Celano: When he had recovered a little and, with the support of a cane, had begun to walk about here and there through the house in order to regain his health, he went outside one day and began to gaze upon the surrounding countryside with greater interest. But the beauty of the fields, the delight of the

The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi 87 vineyards, and whatever else was beautiful to see could offer him no delight at all. He wondered at the sudden change in himself, and considered those who loved these things quite foolish. (Chapter 2–3) In this extract, we learn that Francis experienced somatic sensation changes, which were linked to his emotions. The beautiful landscape with which he was familiar made him feel depressed. Le Goff (2004a) suggested that Medieval hagiography frequently describes illness as providing the occasion for conversion. Though it was not a serious event in terms of changing psychologically at this moment, this illness implies the beginning of something extraordinary. In 1204, the war happened in Apulia. Francis tried to attend it and achieve some military success. When he was ready to set up, he had a dream. The Legend of the Three Companions describes as follows. In the later discussion, I call this “Dream 1.” He was completely preoccupied in carrying this out, and was burning with desire to set out, when, one night, the Lord visited him in a dream. Knowing his desire for honors, He enticed and lifted him to the pinnacle of glory by a vision. That night while he was sleeping, someone appeared to him, a man calling him by name. He led him into a beautiful bride’s elegant palace filled with knightly arms and on its walls hung glittering shields and other armor of knightly arms and on its walls bung glittering shields and other armor of knightly splendor. Overjoyed, he wondered what all this meant and asked to whom these brightly shining arms and this beautiful palace, belonged to him and his knights. (Chapter 2–5) In this dream which Francis experienced as delightful, someone offered him weapons, decorations, a palace, and a beautiful bride. This revealed that he wanted to distinguish himself in the war so as to become a knight. On the other hand, a somewhat different feeling after his dream is expressed in The First Life of St. Francis by Thomas of Celano: In fact he did not know what he was saying, and as yet he did not at all understand the gift sent him from heaven. . . . For, although the vision bore some semblance of great deeds his spirit was not moved by these things in its usual way. (Chapter 2–5) Mainly, he still had an ambition to be acclaimed at the war. However, this description shows that he also felt uneasy. Anyway, he went on to the front, and he had another dream on the way (Dream 2). The Legend of the Three Companions describes this as follows: When he set out for Apulia, he got as far as Spoleto, where he began to feel a little ill. No less anxious about the trip, as he was falling to sleep, half

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Jun Kitayama awake, he heard someone asking him where he wanted to go. When Francis revealed to him his entire plan, the other said: “Who can do more good for you? The lord or the servant?” When [Francis] answered him: “The lord,” he again said to him: “Then why are you abandoning the lord for the servant, the patron for the client?” And Francis said: “Lord, what do you want me to do?” “Go back to your land,” he said, “and what you are to do will be told to you. You must understand in another way the vision which you saw.” When he woke up, he began to think very carefully about this vision. Just as the first vision had caused him to be almost completely carried away with great joy in a desire for worldly prosperity, the second made him completely introspective, causing him to marvel at and consider its strength, so that he was unable to sleep any more that night. (Chapter 2–6)

This dream was an intense shock for Francis. In this message, he was asked who the master was. In other words, he was asked what the most signifcant axis of his life was. Subsequently, he had to consider his own essence and, thus, confrmed his own thoughts: I will follow the Lord. Through this dream, St. Francis decided to abandon the master in whom he had once believed. Thoman (2018) noted, “For Francis, the most perfect way to live penanceand-conversion was by serving people with leprosy.” Changing his attitude to them was a significant transformation. Initially, Francis experienced leprosy as unbearable. He never tried to get close to lepers. However, after his vision in Gubbio, he changed his mind and nursed victims of leprosy. This episode is described in The Legend of Three Companions: One day he was riding his horse near Assisi, when he met a leaper. And, even though he usually shuddered at lepers, he made himself dismount, and gave him a coin, kissing his hand as he did so. After he accepted a kiss of peace from him, Francis remounted and continued on his way. He then began to consider himself less and less, until, by God’s grace, he came to complete victory over himself. (Chapter 4–11) His gradual conversion process could move forward. After an encounter with a leper, he had a dream at San Damiano Church (Dream 3). The Legend of the Three Companions describes this as follows: A few days had passed when, while he was walking by the church of San Damiano, he was told in the Spirit to go inside for a prayer. Once he entered, he began to pray intensely before an image of the Crucified, which spoke to him in a tender and kind voice: “Francis, don’t you see that my house is being destroyed? Go, then, and rebuild it for me.” Stunned and trembling, he said: “I will do so gladly, Lord.” For he understood that it was speaking about that church, which was near collapse because of its age. He was filled

The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi 89 with such joy and became so radiant with light over that message, that he knew in his soul that it was truly Christ crucified who spoke to him. (Chapter 5–13) As in all father–son relationship, Francis’ father wanted him to be the successor of his business. Consequently, he did not accept his son’s fervent belief in God. Gradually, Francis pursued his religious life by living a life of real poverty. His sense of values was obviously different to that of his father. However, Francis did not compromise his principles. His father could not accept that his son was begging for food in dirty cloths. The father tried to catch and hit his son repeatedly. Francis was confned in a prison. However, his mother made him free. Francis and his father were confronted in public with a priest. How father and son parted completely as is described in the following passage in The Legend of the Three Companions: “My Lord, I will gladly give back not only the money acquired from his things, but even all my clothes.” And going into one of the bishop’s rooms, he took off all his clothes, and, putting the money on top of them, came out naked before the bishop, his father, and all the bystanders, and said: “Listen to me, all of you, and understand. Until now I have called Pietro di Bernardone my father. But, because I have proposed to serve God, I return to him the money on account of which he was so upset, and also all the clothing which is his, wanting to say from now on: ‘Our Father who are in heaven’, and not ‘My father, Pietro di Bernardone.’” (Chapter 6–20) Then the bishop admired Francis’s determination, got up, and gathering him in his own arms, covered with the mantle he was wearing. After his separation from his father, he devoted himself to his religious life. In the following part, I will examine St. Francis’s conversion process psychologically.

Dreams and visions of Saint Francis during the conversion process In the medieval era, dreams or visions were frequently used in religious biographical literature to express significant matters (Kawashimo, 2004). However, the history of dreams and their interpretation in the Middle ages is little-known (Le Goff, 2004a). Biographers of saints tend to use dreams as a tool to depict the eminence and the divine legitimization of their actions (Pansters, 2009). In this study, I endeavored to view the dreams and visions as St. Francis’ real experiences. To understand St. Francis’s dreams and his life, I attempted to use some of Jung’s thoughts, such as “I am rather inclined to quote another Jewish authority, the Talmud, which says: ‘The dream is its own interpretation’” (Jung, 1940, par. 41). In every dream, St. Francis confronts the dream and the voice of his opponent directly and honestly. Jung asserted that dreams are a natural occurrence

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and that there is no earthly reason why we should assume that they are a crafty device to lead us astray. In Dream 1, St. Francis’ young passion was expressed clearly. He wanted to succeed in war, be promoted to a knight, and be adorned with beautiful decorative materials. The dream revealed his ambitions. Similar to Jung’s notion, as a rule, a young person’s life is characterized by general expansion and striving toward concrete ends (Jung, 1931, par. 75). Le Goff (2004a) analyzed this dream as follows: “Francis interpreted this vision as foretelling his future successes as a warrior in Apulia. He did not yet understand that the vision was symbolic, that he would be called to other battles, to use other arms, spiritual ones.” It is interesting that Francis was bestowed the armaments that must help his fight to be a knight, but the description by Thomas of Celano reveals Francis’s uneasy feeling. This seems to imply bewilderment on his way of life and an indication of transition. In Dream 2, Francis was asked by the Lord what/who was most significant for him. This question gave him the opportunity to consider his present thoughts, and a different way of living was revealed to him. Then he declared that he would follow the Lord. At the same time, he negated his life without following the Lord. I regard this “negation” is significant psychological movement for his change. This is the moment of his decision to live the way of Christ. An original meaning of the word “decide” is “cutting off.” This dream clearly shows that Francis cut the life without Christianity off. His experience through this dream is noteworthy.5 I guess that the question to the Lord in the dream is the one to himself, “go back to your inner land.” In Dream 3, Francis was asked to rebuild the San Damiano church. Actually, the church needed to be rebuilt and he tried to do it. At the same time, it may be interpreted that he was asked to reconstruct the Christian church. Furthermore, to understand this dream as Francis’s internal process, this dream might suggest his psychological attempt to rebuild his inner church on his own to live as a religious person. In addition, following this dream, he reconstructed his religiousness and began to live as a Christian more deeply. The dreams clearly impacted on Francis’s conversion. Usually, his dreams are analyzed as divine messages, but I found that these dreams displayed his soul’s self-relation (Giegerich, 2005).6

Changing his attitude toward leprosy Francis noted that his encounter with leprosy impacted on his conversion in The Testament: 7 The Lord gave me, Brother Francis, thus to begin doing penance in this way: for when I was in sin, it seemed too bitter for me to see lepers. And the Lord Himself led me among them and I showed mercy to them. And when I left them, what had seemed bitter to me was turned into sweetness of soul and body. And afterwards I delayed a little and left the world.

The conversion of Saint Francis of Assisi 91 Francis disliked leprosy due to the corrupted wounds and bad smell. He felt fear and wanted to avoid even seeing lepers. However, he disposed of his fear of leprosy. This is also abandonment of his past mentality, sense of values, or old viewpoint. This is another “negation” of older existence. Through the denial of the self, he became a new person who is familiar with leprosy.

Separation from his biological father and encounter with his spiritual father St. Francis’ father was a merchant who brought him up as an ordinary young man. Francis followed the living standards of the ordinary people at that time. He wanted to be famous, rich, or render distinguished military service to become a knight. His absolute separation from his father meant he had not only rejected his father’s values but also his family relationship with his father. After their argument, the son of the clothing store got out of his clothes and returned all of them to his father. Symbolically, he left his old way of life, abandoning everything he had been given by his father. At this moment, he was totally naked. This was the absolute “negation” of his past. At this instant, he became a man who related with no one. Rather, he followed his spiritual father, Jesus Christ. Symbolically, then he was covered by the bishop’s mantle. Once, he was able to leave his biological father completely, he encountered his spiritual father. This process suggests that St. Francis also negated his previous values: money, fame, ambition, and possessions. This is why he lived in honorable poverty and humility with the Friars Minor thereafter. One may deduce that a complete separation from one way of life is required to start the next. St. Francis’s courage and perfection enabled his conversion.

Conclusion Through the examination of the process of St. Francis’s conversion, it is found that the complete negations of his prior existence, such as attitudes or thoughts, are of paramount importance to his discovering a new life. It appears as though a moment of nothing is the core moment of conversion. It is noteworthy that the conversion of St. Francis is not a religious change toward a different denomination but a deepening of his Christianity. From this standpoint, St. Francis’s conversion is thoroughly his interpersonal transformation as a Catholic believer. He listened to the voices in his dreams or visions, but they were not given from his outside but by dint of his inner movement. To understanding this process psychologically, the words by Jungian analyst Giegerich (2008) are beneficial. He explains that “entering requires a complete change” and that the one who wants to enter into some place, he needs to leave his old self-identity behind and has to enter with or as a new identity. It was obviously revealed at the moment that Francis took his clothes off and was just naked. Literally, Francis negated his old identity and abandoned it. This was the very beginning of his new life. The newness here is

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thoroughly as a soul-level, but not a self-level of Christian believer. Jung (1939, to W. E. Hocking) regarded St. Francis as a famous example of a nondogmatic religious experience. After the process of conversion, St. Francis tried to live in the manner of Christ. However, it was not a simple imitation. It is said that when Francis listened to the gospel at the mass in Portiuncula, he exclaimed “This is what I want, this is what I with all my soul want to follow in my life!” (Jorgensen, 1913). Throughout his deeper sense of religious change, he sought to live in the manner of Christ. James’s (1902) viewpoint is clearly similar to the St. Francis’s negations during his conversion. He claims that a person “who is healthy-minded, who need to be born only once, and of the sick souls, who must be twice-born in order to be happy.” We may not define Francis had a sick soul, but as one who needed to be “twice-born.” Additionally, James mentioned that “there are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and we must lose the one before we can participate in the other.” This means when we begin to live our own new spiritual life, then have to abandon the initial one. St. Francis is a great figure, so it is too hard to explicate his whole life and religiousness as a saint. However, as James (1902) presented multiple examples of conversion, in this chapter, I have added one illustration and tried to examine the case of St. Francis’s. For me, as a clinical psychologist, when I will see someone who is living in the period of change in my practice in future, I will be reminded of the story of this one single person’s religious and psychological transition with an attempt of “negation.” This may help me to be with the person in struggle. In this sense, the end of this really tiny attempt is the beginning of my own transition.

Notes 1 For this chapter, I also referred to Marion, M. A. (ed) (1983) St. Francis of Assisi, Writings and Early Biographies: English Omnibus of the Sources for the Life of St. Francis, Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press and Franciscan Province of Japan (trans) (2015) Assiji no sei furanshisuko denki shiryo-syu [Biographies of Saint Francis of Assisi], Tokyo: Kyobunkwan. 2 In the same book, James also defined conversion as “if the change be a religious one, we call it a conversion, especially if it be by crisis, or sudden.” 3 The Legend of Three Companions is collected in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents Volume 2: The Founder. 4 The First Life of St. Francis by Thomas of Celano is collected in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents Volume 1: The Saint. 5 Jung (1940, par. 110) explained the experience of dreaming as follows: “It only matters how the patient feels about it [a dream]. It is his experience, and if it has a deeply transforming influence upon his condition there is no point in arguing against it.” In the same context he regarded such experience as “It was what one would call – in the language of religion – a conversion.” 6 Giegerich (2005) claims that “for psychology, there is no Other. Or the other that there is ‘the soul’s’ own other, its internal other, that is to say, itself as other. ‘The soul’ is self-relation. It has nothing outside of itself.” 7 The Testament is collected in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents Volume 1: The Saint.

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References Armstrong, A. J., Hellmann, J. A. W., and Short, W. J. (eds) (2000) Francis of Assisi: Early Documents Volume 2: The Founder, New York: New City Press. Armstrong, A. J., Hellmann, J. A. W., and Short, W. J. (eds) (2001) Francis of Assisi: Early Documents Volume 1: The Saint, New York: New City Press. Editors of the American Heritage Dictionaries (2011) The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (5th ed.), Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Ellwood, R. (2008) Introducing Japanese Religion, New York: Routledge. Giegerich, W. (2005) ‘“Different Moments of Truth” – A Few Examples’, in W. Giegerich, D. L. Miller, and G. Mogenson (eds), Dialectics & Analytical Psychology, New Orleans: Spring Journal. Giegerich, W. (2008) The Soul’s Logical Life: Towards a Rigorous Notion of Psychology (4th ed.), Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Iyoku, A. (2019) Gendai ni chousen suru furansisuko [Francisco, a Man Who Is Challenging in the Present Days], Tokyo: Oriens Institute for Religious Research. James, W. (1902/1985) The Varieties of Religious Experience, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Jorgensen, J. (1913) Saint Francis of Assisi: A Biography, New York: Longmans, Green and Co (Reprint in 2020 by Alpha Editions). Jung, C. G. (1931/1985) The Aims of Psychotherapy, CW16, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1939/2017) C. G. Jung Letters 1: 1906–1950 (selected and edited by G. Adler, in collaboration with A. Jaffe), Oxon: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Jung, C. G. (1940/1969) Psychology and Religion, CW11, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kadowaki, K. (2014) ‘Sei furansisuko no miryoku no himitsu: sono fubou to shisou [The Secret of Saint Francis’s Fascination: His Features and Thoughts]’, in K. Kadowaki (ed), Assiji no sei-furansisuko no omokage: kyoko furansisuko ni sasagu [An Image of Saint Francis of Assisi: Dedicated to Pope Francis], Tokyo: Kyobunkwan. Kawai, H. (1995) Myoe yume wo ikiru [The Buddhist Priest Myoe: A Life of Dreams], Tokyo: Kodan-sha. Kawai, H. (2004) ‘Saint Francis of Assisi and the Japanese Buddhist Priest Myoe’, in L. Cowan (ed), Barcelona 2004 Edges of Experience: Memory and Emergence, Proceedings of the Sixteenth International Congress for Analytical Psychology, Einsiedeln: Daimon Verlag. Kawai, H., and Pittau, J. (2005) Seichi assiji no taiwa; sei-furanshisuko to Myoe shonin [Conversation at a Sacred Place: Saint Francis of Assisi and the Buddhist Monk Myoe], Tokyo: Fujiwara shoten. Kawashimo, M. (2004) Assiji no sei-furanshisuko [Saint Francis of Assisi], Tokyo: Shimizu shoin. Le Goff, J. (2004a) Saint Francis of Assisi, C. Rhone (trans), London: Routledge. Le Goff, J. (2004b) ‘Jyobun [Introduction]’, in C. Frugoni (ed), Francis of Assisi, N. Mitsumori (trans), Assiji no furanchesuko hitori no ningen no syogai [Francis of Assisi: A Life of One Human], Tokyo: Hakusui-sha. Pansters, K. (2009) ‘Dreams in Medieval Saints’ Lives: Saint Francis of Assisi’, Dreaming, Vol. 19, No. 1, 55–63.

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Sakaguchi, K. (2001) ‘Kaisetsu [An Interpretation]’, in Sophia University Institute of Medieval Thought (eds), Furansisuko-kai gakuha [Franciscan School], Tokyo: Heibon-sha. Thoman, B. (2018) St. Francis of Assisi: Passion, Poverty, and the Man who Transformed the Catholic Church (2nd ed.), Charlotte: Tan Books. Tokuda, Y. (2000) Shukyo teki kaishin no kenkyu: Kindai nihon ni okeru shukyo teki ningen no rikai [The Study of Religious Conversion: Understanding of Religious Persons in Modern Japan], Unpublished doctoral thesis. Sendai: Tohoku University.

Part 3

Clinical issues

9

Intimate relationships between women and men Psychosocial and post-Jungian perspectives Andrew Samuels

Introduction In most countries, relationships between women and men continue to be studied and discussed in academic and clinical circles. One reason for it is because whilst such relationships reflect social and cultural changes, they also drive them. This is a chapter about gender, psychology, politics and the relations between women and men. I have been writing about these matters for 45 years and I am still not sure what I think about them, or sure what is true and accurate. I dedicate this chapter to two people. First, to my friend Professor Takao Oda, who brought me to lecture and teach in Japan many times. I still grieve his loss at a very young age. He taught me much about Shinto and about sandplay. The second person is one of my heroes, the British World and Olympic boxing champion Nicola Adams. She has been my muse in writing this chapter. Now, I present the structure of my chapter: after this introduction, I will write on men and politics. Then a section entitled ‘in praise of gender confusion’. Next, on Jungian analysis and gender, beyond the feminine principle. Following that, animus and anima – a proposal. Finally, a section on intimate relationships, focusing on the phenomenon of promiscuity. All I know is that the debates around gender, whether within Jungian analysis, or outside Jungian analysis, or between Jungian analysis and other disciplines, are numinous and fascinating. We are all caught up in them, with our particular culture, history and geographical location playing important parts. In the chapter, I will ask my readers to engage in four gentle experiential exercises. I will try to be careful not to give the impression that I am deeply familiar with contemporary Japanese culture. Yet I believe that my ideas may well strike a chord with the Japanese audience. Why might my ideas from London have struck a chord with the Japanese audience? I was very interested in the scandal in which the entrance examination results for medical school were falsified so that more men got in than was in fact the case. The picture of the authorities apologizing in public with deep bows is very powerful. The BBC broadcasted a report in April 2019 on the resistance by Japanese women to the compulsory wearing of high-heeled shoes in the office. The

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important thing was not the rule (which is often in use and we have things like that in Britain), but the new phenomenon of Japanese women’s resistance to it. A picture was published of a woman in a meeting room boldly and defiantly wearing trainers. Yet, we read in the newspapers how the Minister of Health and Labour defended the rule as ‘necessary’. Next, I was also struck by a headline in this economic report: that in terms of economic gender inequality Japan is the worst in the G7. I also learned that married women may not continue to use their maiden names. We have similar tensions in the West and we are in paroxysms over MeToo and sexual harassment. But that’s not the point. The point is that I have become aware that Japan is in the middle of an intense national debate about gender. That was why, with the encouragement of Professor Konoyu Nakamura, the conference organizer, I chose the topic for my contribution. You may be asking why I focus on heterosexuality, and not include homosexuality, and do not enter discussions about transgender? It is not that I am uninterested in these latter themes; indeed, I have written much about them and am known publicly as an advocate for the rights of gay men and lesbians and, more recently, of transgendered people. But I think it is time for me, and maybe for the field, to return to the majority concern once again, and that is heterosexuality, whether we like it or not. In so doing, one need not be hetero-normative, as I will try to show. ‘Gender’ has come to mean the arrangements by which the supposedly biological raw material of sex and procreation is shaped by human and social intervention. Gender and the passionate politics it spawns have given rise to traumatic divisiveness in our world – West, East, South and North. But, looked at with the eye of a psychoanalyst, the very idea of gender also has a hidden bridge-building function: it sits on a threshold half-way between the inner and outer worlds and thus is already half-way out into the world of politics. On the one hand, gender is a private, secret, sacred, mysterious story that we tell ourselves and are told by others about who we are. But it is also a set of experiences deeply implicated in and irradiated by the political and socioeconomic realities of the outer world. The notion of gender, therefore, not only marries the inner and outer worlds but actually calls into dispute the validity of the division. It is no wonder, then, that gender issues get so politicized as well as continuing to turn us on. Nor is it any surprise that contemporary cultural and political discussions focus so often on gender issues – like the proportions of men and women in the various arms of government, paternity (as opposed to maternity) leave, and the perennial and unsolved everywhere issue of equality of pay.

Men and politics Let’s focus on men for a moment. Why? Far too much psychological writing on gender focuses on women! Not many psychoanalysts write about men. Ironically, men have become the object of much political and psychological scrutiny in the

Intimate relationships between women and men 99 West these days and are often seen as ‘the problem’. I say ‘ironically’ because, for millennia, men were the ones to scrutinize other groups and make them problematic: women, children, Blacks, the fauna and flora of the natural world. Men were a sort of papal balcony from which to survey the universe. But, in our age, a huge shift in cultural consciousness has taken place and new questions about men have arisen: men as (errant) fathers, men as (violent) criminals and men as (apathetic) citizens. The three underlying questions seem to be: can men change? Are men powerful? Do men hate women? I will briefly discuss these questions and then, as an experiential exercise, ask you to discuss amongst yourselves and then vote what you think about the answers to the questions. Can men change? Men can change, of course, and yet the statistics about who typically takes care of children or does the washing-up show that they have not altered their behaviour very much. Why not? In the past few years, far too much time has been spent on irresolvable philosophical, metaphysical and quasi-scientific discussions about the relative importance of nature and nurture in the formation of gender identity and performance. Yet it may still be politically useful to consider the limitations on men’s capacity to change – not because of biological hard-wiring but because of psychological factors, in psychotherapy language ‘internalization’: a kind of psychological rather than biological ‘inheritance’ referring to the way men take in (internalize) images of manliness they see projected by the outside world and make them part of their inner world. Exercise 1: Please consider this question ‘Can men change?’ Are men powerful? They certainly have economic power. But Black men, homeless men, men in prisons, young men forced or tricked into armies, disabled men and gay men are often vulnerable fgures. We have serious trouble contemplating male economic power and male economic vulnerability simultaneously. We know, too, that men are scared of women. Never mind their fear of ‘the feminine’, what scares men is women. How can a man be said to be powerful if he is scared of women? And men are also frightened of other men. When contemplating the question of male power, what each of us has internalized is crucial in determining our answer – which means that personal experience and circumstances are decisive. At the same time, the undoubted economic power that males possess could be made to serve progressive ends. If men and their formal institutions put just a tiny proportion of their economic power to benevolent use, it would make an enormous difference. Or if men got fully behind attempts to engage with the climate crisis that threatens us with apocalyptic destruction. So whatever changes may be taking place in the world of men could have immense political and social effects. Exercise 2: Please consider this question ‘Are men powerful?’ Do men hate women? Here, the word ‘ambivalence’ comes to mind and, as we shall return to the concept later, its history will be useful. In 1910, when Jung’s

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superior, Eugene Bleuler, coined the word ambivalence, he meant it as a very serious symptom of schizophrenia. By the 1930s and 1940s, it had become the sign of psychological maturity according to psychoanalysis. Ambivalence is the capacity to have simultaneously hating and loving feelings towards the same person. So it is not only a problem but an extremely hard-to-achieve aspect of psychological and social maturity. Exercise 3: Please consider this question ‘Do men hate women?’

In praise of gender confusion Most people are wary now of any individuals who seem too settled and sure in their gender identity and gender role. Think of the tycoon – so capable and dynamic, such a marvellous self-starter. Do we not know that, secretly, he is a sobbing little boy, dependent on others, perhaps mostly females, for all his feelings of safety and security? Or the Don Juan, talking incessantly of the women he has seduced, who turns out to have fantasies of being female himself and yearns to be seduced by another man? Or the woman who seems so fulfilled as a mother, yet privately desires to express herself in ways other than maternity, to come into another kind of power, to protest her cultural ‘castration’? We have come to accept that behind excessive gender certainty lurk gender confusions like these. At the same time, even many people who are suspicious of too much gender certainty feel that it is basically a good thing to be pretty certain about one’s gender, to know for sure that in spite of all the problems one has with being a man or a woman, one is indeed a man or a woman. Yet the contemporary emergence and (sometimes) the acceptance of transgender mean that another ideal altogether is needed to make sense of what we are experiencing in the muddled and mysterious world of early twenty-first-century gender relations and gender politics. Many people who come for therapy are manifestly confused about their gender identity. They may know how a man or woman is supposed to behave, but they are not sure that, given what they know about their internal lives, a person who is really a man or a woman could possibly feel or fantasize what they are feeling and fantasizing. For these profound feelings of gender confusion to exist, there has to be an equally profound feeling of gender certainty in operation at some level – certainty based on the images presented by society. You cannot know the details of your confusion without having an inkling of the certitude against which you are measuring it. The client sobbing his little boy heart out knows very well that ‘real’ ‘manly’ tycoons exist out there and evaluates himself negatively as a result. Indeed, we could even say: no gender certainty, no gender confusion. What this means is that, to a very great degree, people construct their gender confusion in relation to their gender certainty. If gender certainty is part of ordinary socialization, then gender confusion is equally constructed and not a deep personal wound or failure. We need, therefore, to extend radically the by-now conventional insight that gender confusion lies behind gender certainty to see that gender certainty lies

Intimate relationships between women and men 101 behind gender confusion. To the extent that gender confusion is usually taken as a mental health problem or neurosis, we are making a colossal mistake and even playing a destructive con trick on those supposedly suffering from it. The problem, in fact, is gender certainty. We can look at how this operates for men specifically in Western societies. The clichéd idea that many men living in a feminism-affected culture feel confused about who they are as men takes on a rather different cast if we disown the idea of the desirability of gender certainty. From this angle, modern men are not so confused – or at least feeling confused is not their main problem. Their problem is being afflicted with a gender certainty that is of no emotional use to them in their lives and may be actually harmful to their potential. (When men’s movement leaders offer a certainty that seems to have been missing from the lives of men, they are unwittingly doing nothing more than bringing the unconscious gender certainty that was always there to the surface and reinforcing it. As that certainty came from the culture in the first place, there is nothing radical or scene-shifting about it at all.) That’s enough on men. Now, the really interesting question is what to do with the feelings of gender confusion from which everyone suffers these days. It all becomes easier to live with if we replace the word ‘confusion’ with something that sounds more positive, like ‘non-binary’, ‘fluidity’ or ‘flexibility’ or even ‘androgyny’. But the word ‘confusion’ has merits because it comes closer to capturing what contemporary people feel about their gender identity. In fact, gender confusion can contribute something valuable to political and social reform and change. If gender is a story we tell about ourselves that is half private and half public, it is also something upon which most polities have erected a welter of oppressive practices and regulations, mostly favouring men. Unfortunately, many Western governments may be turning back to a retrogressive form of gender politics fuelled by the certitudinous ‘family values’ of the past. We psychotherapists and analysts need to access what is involved in gender confusion and gender certainty in a new language of fleshly images that speak more directly to people’s experience. Children seem to grasp this instinctively. When my son was 8 and my daughter 7, they taught me their theory of gender confusion, which has much more to do with self-image at depth than the more conventional, journalistic presentation of men as mixed up because of what women have managed to achieve. They identified four equal categories: boy-boy, boy-girl, girl-girl and girlboy. Anatomy is important but not decisive in determining who belongs to which category. So my daughter could refer to herself as a girl-girl or a girl-boy while my son oscillated between being a boy-girl and a girl-boy. Context was important – it depended on whom they were with. This system gets beyond a simplistic heterosexual–homosexual or feminine–masculine divide. In the adult world, as many (or more) boy-girls are heterosexual as are homosexual. The certitudes upon which homophobia rests are subverted by this way of speaking. In fact, the celebration of confusion embodied by such children’s theories may be a more effective, interesting and radical way to enter gender politics than either the suspiciousness and judgementalism of the therapist or the nostalgia-fuelled

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return to certainty we see in some aspects of the men’s movement or the advocacy of an ersatz merger of men’s sociopolitical interests with those of women. Gender confusion unsettles all the main alternatives on offer. I conclude this section on gender confusion by saying that nothing is more suspect than the complaint, fuelled by ‘victim envy’, that society now favours women over men. Nevertheless, as suggested earlier, it would be wrong to end by reasserting that males have all the power. Perhaps there isn’t a monolith called ‘men’ after all. (For further reading, see Samuels, 1993; Samuels, 2001.)

Jungian analysis and gender: beyond the feminine principle Now is the time to look at Jungian contributions to discussions about the matters I have been raising. Now the questions become: Is there such a thing as innately ‘masculine’ or innately ‘feminine’ psychology? Is there such a thing as a ‘feminine psychology’? I’ll begin with a general discussion, then consider whether there is a feminine psychology that applies to women. In a moment, I’ll look at the ‘feminine’ in relation to men, and, after that, at femininity and masculinity as metaphors. Males and females do have experiences that vary markedly. But it is a huge step from that to a claim that they actually function sufficiently discrepantly psychologically for us to speak of two distinct psychologies. The evidence concerning this is muddled and hard to assess. For instance, the discovery that boys build towers and girls build enclosures when they are given bricks can be taken to show a similarity of functioning rather than difference (which is what is usually claimed). Both sexes are interested in their bodies and, possibly, in the differences between male and female bodies. Both sexes express that interest in the same way – symbolically, in play with bricks. Or, put in another form, both sexes approach the difference between the sexes in the same way. The differences that we see in gender role and gender identity can then be looked at as having arisen in the same manner. The psychological processes by which a male becomes an aggressive businessman and a female a nurturing and submissive housewife are the same kinds of processes – and one should not be deceived by the dissimilarity in the end product. What I have been describing is not a woman’s relation to an innate femininity or to an innate masculinity. Rather I am talking of her relation to the phenomenon of difference. Then we can consider the social or cultural structures erected on the basis of that difference. Each woman lives her life in interplay with such difference. This leads at once to questions of gender role (for example, how a woman can best express her aggression in her culture?), but these questions need not be couched in terms of innate femininity or innate masculinity, nor in terms of a feminine–masculine spectrum. Rather, they might be expressed in terms of difference.

Intimate relationships between women and men 103 In the example, the difference between aggression and submission needs to be seen as different from the difference between men and women! Or, put another way, whatever differences there might be between women and men are not illuminated or signified by the difference between submission and aggression. Now, as a Jungian, I am of course aware that men are said to have access to the ‘feminine’, or to the ‘feminine principle’ and I used to think that such an unremittingly interior view was the jewel in the Jungian crown. Well, these days I am not so sure. If we’re attempting to describe psychological performance, we have to be sure why terms with gendered associations and appellations are being used at all. Otherwise we end up with statements such as that ‘masculine’ aggression is available to women via their relation to the animus or ‘feminine’ reflection in the man via his anima. But aggression is part of woman and reflection is part of man. What is more, there are so many kinds of aggression open to women that even current attempts to speak of a woman’s aggression as ‘feminine’ rather than ‘masculine’ still bind her as tightly as ever. Let us begin to speak merely of aggression. Gender engenders confusion – and this is made worse when gender terms are used exclusively in an inner way. When we speak of ‘inner’ femininity in a man, we bring in all the unnecessary problems of reification and substantive abstraction that I have been describing. We still cannot assume that psychological functioning is different in men and women, though we know that the creatures ‘man’ and ‘woman’ are different. The question of ‘difference’ brings us to a point where we can play back these ideas into analytical psychology. From Jung’s overall theory of opposites, which hamstrings us by its insistence on contrasexuality (‘masculine’ assertion via the animus, etc.), we can extract the theme of difference. The notion of difference, I suggest, can help us in the discussion about gender. Not innate ‘opposites’, which lead us to create an unjustified psychological division expressed in lists of antithetical qualities, each list yearning for the other list so as to become ‘whole’. A marriage made on paper. So what I am suggesting is that in both the collective, external debate about gender characteristics and the personal, internal debate about gender identity, the question of ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ is best left in suspension. It is probably fair to say that post-Jungian analytical psychology has become preoccupied with the ‘feminine principle’. Here, I am not referring to the writings on women and ‘feminine psychology’ by Jung and his early circle of followers. The problems with that body of work are well known and often repeated. But in the 1970s and 1980s, mainly in the United States, women writers in analytical psychology have set out to revise, or revolutionize, the early work. Such writers are struggling to be ‘post-Jungian’ in their attempt to critique those of Jung’s ideas that seem unsatisfactory or just plain wrong without dismissing Jung altogether. The reason why there has been a concentration on the ‘feminine principle’ in recent Jungian writing is that it has provided a means to celebrate the specificity of women’s identity, life, and experience. In addition, having the notion of a ‘feminine principle’ in mind helps to make a critique of culture out of personal

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confrontations with it. The basic desire of feminists who are involved in Jungian psychology has been to refuse and refute the denigration of women that is perceived in analytical psychology, to bring the feminine gender in from the condescending margins and to promote an alternative philosophy of life to that expressed in the power institutions of a male-dominated society. Taken as a whole, and I realize I am generalizing, feminism which draws on Jung’s ideas stands out from other varieties, with which I feel more in sympathy, in two main ways. Both of these stem from Jung’s approach resist eradication and cause great difficulties. It is assumed that there is something eternal about femininity and, hence, about women; that women therefore, display certain essential transcultural and ahistorical characteristics and that these can be described in psychological terms. What is omitted is the ongoing role of the prevailing culture in the construction of the ‘feminine’ and a confusion develops between what is claimed to be eternal and what is currently observed to be the case. It is here that the deadweight of the heritage of archetypal theory is felt. Jung assumed that there is something eternal about women and, hence, about femininity. But his beliefs about difference – for example, about gender and racial differences – have influenced our thinking about the meaning of symbolic representations, behaviours, style and manner of people who are alien to the roots of his psychology in early twentieth century Switzerland. I would like to say what I find problematic in the many attempts to locate eternal models or maps for the psychological activity of women in mythology and goddess imagery. When such imagery is used as a kind of role model or resource for a woman in her here-and-now pain and struggle, which is one thing. But when it is claimed that such endeavour is a reclamation of qualities and characteristics that once prevailed in human society only to be smashed by the patriarchy, then that is altogether more suspect. For it is a highly disputed point, to put it mildly, that such an era ever existed. Could this be a case of taking myth too literally? And isn’t there a hidden danger here? For if men were to claim that they are in the direct line of psychic inheritance of the characteristics and qualities of gods and heroes, then we’d end up with the status quo, with things just as they are, for they couldn’t be any other way. As far as role-modelling and resource provision goes, surely any woman, even or especially an analyst, can perform this task for another woman. The search for hidden sources of authority is a project constellated by what is seen as a flawed cultural tradition. But there may also be a ‘flaw’ in the project itself, for such a search demonstrates the very sense of weakness and lack of authority which it seeks to overcome. Engaging in a rivalrous search for female archetypes could lead to a new set of restrictions on female experience, as several writers have observed. Trawling the recent literature, I have been struck by the massiveness of the feminine problematic, signified in numerous phrases such as feminine elements of being, feminine modality of being, femininity of self, feminine ways of knowing, feminine authority, feminine assertion, feminine reflection, feminine dimensions of the soul, primal feminine energy pattern, feminine power, feminine response,

Intimate relationships between women and men 105 feminine creativity, feminine mysteries, feminine body, feminine subjectivity and feminine transformation. I could have quadrupled the list; for ease of reference, I have subsumed all these terms under the general heading of the ‘feminine principle’. Something oppressive has come into being – not, repeat not, because what is claimed as the content of the ‘feminine principle’ is oppressive but because celebrating the feminine has raised it to the status of an ego-ideal, leading to a simple and pointless reversal of power positions. Further, perhaps it is the shadow of feminism generally to make women feel inadequate when they don’t come up to its mark or cannot emulate notable feminist figures.

Animus and anima – a proposal There is an apparent consensus going around that everyone – male and female – has both animus and anima. Well, maybe. But what I want to propose is different to this trendy idea. I say that animus and anima images are not of men and women because animus and anima qualities are ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’. No – rather, for the individual woman or man, anatomy is a metaphor for the richness and potential of the ‘other’. A man will imagine what is ‘other’ to him in the symbolic form of a woman – a being with another anatomy. A woman will symbolize what is foreign to her in terms of the kind of body she does not herself have. The so-called contrasexuality is more something ‘contra-psychological’; anatomy is a metaphor for that. But to fully benefit from his ideas of animus and anima these have to be subjected to a post-Jungian critical revision. Classical Jungian notions such as external and internal masculinity and femininity, which lead to the assumption of essential differences between the sexes, are not the most fruitful way to use Jung’s ideas. Instead, animus and anima represent the expansion of the roles available to both sexes. We can happily consider aggressive and assertive woman (such as athletes and activists) and nurturing and receptive men (fathers). Hence, we transform a traditional and repressive theory into something that supports an expansion of roles and behaviours for women and for men. Animus and anima become motors of progressive change. But anatomy is absolutely not a metaphor for any particular emotional characteristic or set of characteristics. That depends on the individual and on whatever is presently outside her or his conscious grasp and hence in need of being represented by a personification of the opposite sex. The difference between you and your animus or anima is very different from the difference between you and a man or woman. The whole gender debate suggests that we Jungians join with those who question whether heterosexuality itself should be taken as innate and therefore as something fundamental and beyond discussion, or whether it, too, has a nonbiological dimension. Freud’s perception was of an innate bisexuality followed later by heterosexuality.

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Jung’s view was that man and woman are each incomplete without the other: heterosexuality is therefore a given. In this sense he differs from Freud’s emphasis on bisexuality as the natural state of mankind. In Freud’s approach, sexual identity arises from the enforced twin demands of reproduction and society. What I have been arguing shifts the concept of bisexuality from something undifferentiated (polymorphous or polyvalent) into a vision of there being available to all a variety of positions in relation to gender role. (For further discussion, see Samuels, 1989.) If discriminations like these are not made, then those analytical psychologists who espouse the idea of innate, body-based, sex-specific psychologies, find themselves lined up with those groupings often referred to as the ‘New Right’ or conservative or traditional. This is the case in Britain and the United States. Here, too, isn’t that possible? New Right assumptions about sex-specific psychology tend to be based on appeals to tradition and often have a romantic appeal but those of us working therapeutically need to be aware of the way in which the assumptions can be used to promote the notion of ‘order’ and of how women’s activities, in particular, are decisively limited. Men win – again.

On intimate relationships – the phenomenon of promiscuity What happens in private between the sexes is also an important source of developments in society. Sexuality, including fantasy, may be viewed as proactive and as a motor of resistance to unjust and oppressive conditions for both women and men. For this reason I want to focus on sexual promiscuity. Back in the 1960s, in the summer of love, we in the West didn’t talk about ‘promiscuity’. The reference was to ‘non-possessive relating’ or ‘alternative families’ or ‘free love’. In the talk. That is to say, promiscuity was viewed as a political statement. It is still hard to find much contemporary discussion of promiscuity in a Western context that does not take a negative line. The word that appears over and over again in the context of sex is ‘casual’. Casual sex is the term with which we are now most familiar. Exercise 4: I ask you to think of the last time you experienced absolute and total lust for another person (define lust as you like). What happened? If you acted on it, what feelings did you have at the time, and now? If you didn’t act on your experience of lust, what feelings did you have at the time, and now? Promiscuity is the background phenomenon that since the late nineteenth century has underpinned numerous discussions that couple politics and sexuality. Conventional accounts of intimate relations praise them when they radiate constancy, longevity and fdelity. But more radical accounts suggest that ownership and control of the other are also critically important. The best known of these was Friedrich Engels’ 1884 Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State

Intimate relationships between women and men 107 in which he states that the frst class opposition that appears in history coincides with ‘the development of the antagonism between man and woman in monogamous marriage’ especially in ‘the possessing classes’. Today’s monogamy may be seen as chiming and co-symbolizing with neo-liberal market economics and with implicit and explicit claims by powerful Western countries and corporations to ‘possess’ planetary resources. Monogamy, it can be argued, is therefore implicated in a wide range of injustices – environmental, economic and ethical. Now, this point can be made with greater or lesser passion, for monogamy certainly has its merits and cannot only be reduced to the level of political tyranny. The corollary – that non-monogamy is correlated with sustainability, equality and social justice – remains, perforce, untested though hugely suggestive. Ownership is a tendentious perspective on relationships and geopolitics alike, but public strategies for sustainability, such as the principle of ‘global commons’, can be seen to co-symbolize with non-monogamy in the private sphere. If we consider, for example, the Midrashic story of Lilith we can understand the possible relations between politics and sexual behaviour a bit more fluidly. Lilith was Adam’s first consort who was created from the earth at the same time as Adam. She was unwilling to give up her equality and argued with Adam over the position in which they should have intercourse – Lilith insisting on being on top. ‘Why should I lie beneath you’ she argued, ‘when I am your equal since both of us were created from dust?’ Adam was determined and began to rape Lilith who called out the magic name of God, rose into the air and flew away. Eve was then created. Lilith’s later career was – not surprisingly – as an evil she-demon who comes secretly to men in the night, hence being responsible for nocturnal emissions. She was also a murderer of newborns. But in the end, after the destruction of the Temple, Lilith enters a relationship with God as a sort of mistress. My point is that this kind of material can be taken as much as an expression of the influence of the sexual on the political as the other way around. The experience people have of the sexual is also a motor of their politicality, political style and political values. Sexual experience and its associated imagery express an individual’s psychological approach to political functioning.

Promiscuity and psychotherapy/analysis With these thoughts in mind, I want to turn to our own profession of psychotherapy, both in and of itself and as representative of the wider culture. My accusation is that, when it comes to promiscuity, psychotherapy as an institution, many (but not all) psychotherapists as individuals are hypocritical. In terms of the etymology of the word ‘hypocrisy’, they are play acting or feigning something. As well as scoring points, I am interested in probing this phenomenon. It is significant that sex outside of relationship is largely untheorized by analysts and therapists – or, if there is a theoretical position taken, it is invariably in terms of psychopathology, of an alleged fear of intimacy, problems in attachment (‘ambivalent attachment’) and relationship, perversion and so on. There is

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a contemporary absence of consideration of what my late friend, the relational psychoanalyst Muriel Dimen, referred to as ‘sex-as-force’. I think it is interesting to ask whether there might be something in the fundamental thinking or set-up of psychotherapy that leads to a carnality-averse conservatism. We have learned, mostly from Foucault that, for every majority discourse, there is likely to be a subjugated minority discourse. In psychotherapy – as in society – the majority discourse is relational. Hence, the subjugated minority discourse will be the opposite of relational; in the language of this talk, promiscuous. (For further discussion of these arguments, see Samuels, 2009.) I have wondered if the silence of psychotherapists on the topic of promiscuity reflects a kind of sexual horror – so they translate everything into a discourse of relationality in which ‘persons’ get split off from ‘sex’. Putting these ideas – of hypocrisy and a subjugated non-relational discourse – together exposes the secret moral conservatism of numerous psychotherapeutic clinicians compared to their often very different sexual behaviour as persons. We could begin to understand this more deeply by seeing it as envy on the part of the therapist of the sexual experimentation and out-of-order behaviour related to them by their clients. The matter comes to a head when psychotherapists engage with infidelity (‘cheating’) on the part of their clients. Whilst not denying that some therapists, particularly couple therapists, understand cheating as a systemic phenomenon, the overall psychotherapeutic take on the matter is that it is a symptom of something else, some problem in the cheat, usually of a narcissistic kind. The cheated upon usually feels immense pain and the cheat often feels great guilt. These are strong affects for the therapist to engage with. Hence, unsurprisingly perhaps, what we see in the majority of instances is a counter-resistant valorization of relational longevity and an utterly literal understanding of ‘object constancy’ at the expense of relational quality. Provided you are in a longstanding relationship, you are, to all intents and purposes, psychologically healthy. Is that true?!

References Engels, F. (1884/1972) Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. New York: International Publishers Company. Samuels, A. (1989) The Plural Psyche: Personality, Morality and the Father. London and New York: Routledge. Samuels, A. (1993) The Political Psyche. London and New York: Routledge. Samuels, A. (2001) Politics on the Couch: Citizenship and the Internal Life. London and New York: Karnac. Samuels, A. (2009) ‘Carnal Critiques: Promiscuity, Politics, Imagination, Spirituality and Hypocrisy’. Psychotherapy and Politics International, 7(1), pp. 3–31.

10 On compassion – a vessel that holds our relationships with others Shoichi Kato

1. Introduction In the field of clinical psychology, the therapeutic value of empathy has been recognized from early on, and its importance in clinical practice has been emphasized in various studies. Meanwhile, compassion has been considered as an element in empathy or as a synonym of sympathy and has thus failed to gather much attention. As a result, in Japan, compassion has not been discussed much in academic literature up until the present day. In recent years, the technique of mindfulness, originating in Buddhist meditation practice, has been adopted in psychotherapies based on cognitive behavioral therapy such as compassion focused therapy and is increasingly used as a practical therapeutic skill. Neuroscience experiments have also been conducted on the brain states of Buddhist monks during their practice of compassion meditation, promoting scientific understanding of this mental state. In this chapter, however, I will discuss compassion not as a practical skill but rather, as part of the workings of our psyche, which is deeply seated in the individuation process of each one of us. In other words, compassion is considered here as a sensitivity, which we start nurturing since our early childhood, and can strengthen and deepen through our experiences to form a deep-seated, existential attitude toward others we encounter in our lives. I understand that compassion in this sense could serve not only in the practice of clinical psychology but also in our general human relationships as a vessel that would hold relationships between individuals who share empathy but often cannot do anything for each other, or even among individuals who for some reason cannot empathize with each other.

2. A compassionate attitude Since early childhood, we seem to develop compassionate feelings toward others without necessarily being aware of it. The English term “compassion” is usually defined in dictionaries as “同情” (do-jo or “sympathy”) or “憐み” (a-wa-re-mi or “pity”). However, the meaning of “compassion” intended in this chapter (hereinafter “Compassion”) is indicated more clearly in its etymology. The word “compassion” comprises two Latin words, i.e., “cum” (with) and “passio¯” (to suffer).

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Hence, the original meaning of the word is “to suffer together.” So, Compassion in the following discussion has “suffering together” as its core meaning. To give a rough outline of the concept, Compassion is our ability to feel others who are, just like ourselves, in a state of suffering while being aware of the absolute separation between oneself and those others despite our heartfelt wishes to be closer. We are separated absolutely from each other, and each of us is an “I” with our own sufferings. As long as this is the case, we cannot be them to take on their wounded emotions and sufferings. On the contrary, we occasionally wound each other deeply. Owing to this deep connection with the sense of absolute separation, Compassion seems to be accompanied by a feeling of sadness. At the beginning of this section, I said we develop Compassion in our early childhood without being aware of it. If Compassion is conditioned in its essence by the sense of absolute separation and accompanies a feeling of sadness, we could also assume that it is sensitivity which develops through sufferings experienced in intimate relationships. Ever since we were born out of our mothers, we have been physically separated from all others as individualized beings. Then, throughout our infancy period and early childhood, we learn how to use our bodies to move and talk, and gradually awaken our ego which acts, speaks, and recognizes the world, and we establish it over many years. In this long process, we come to realize that we are separated as a single being with our unique desires and human emotions, and experience, again and again, a lack of mutual understanding, and not a few wounded feelings in our most intimate relationships. For instance, in our parent–child relationships of early childhood, in friendships we develop at elementary and junior high schools, and in our romantic and married relationships, we occasionally suffer deep wounds. Then, while the wounds continually torture us for long, Compassion seems to be preparing in the depths of our psyche, often without our ever becoming aware of it and starts working. I assume that Compassion is a sensitivity that could be cultivated as we take on our wounds and sufferings while becoming ever more aware of the process of our own individuation and developed into a mode of being or a deeply inscribed existential attitude of our personality toward life. To examine Compassion in this sense more closely, I would like to discuss two examples in which Compassion emerges and plays a significant role in the middle of sufferings experienced by the persons concerned.

3. A dream of a man When an “I” of a man desires a relationship with a certain woman, then she attracts him strongly as a being which could bring about love and affection as well as pleasure. A man had the following dream: Dream: A woman who looks like Ms. A. She has an uncommon, hidden power. She makes stars shine, changes constellations. This dream expresses straightforwardly an awe-inspiring essence of a romance. An “I,” the dreamer, looks up at the night skies, and he sees an image of a woman

On compassion 111 who brightens up the stars and moves their constellations. Though it is just an image seen in a dream, such a power as expressed in this dream could only be possessed by a goddess. His fate is held in her hand. In the unconscious, we foresee and feel such great possibilities in a romance and we project more or less all such possibilities to our actual partners in a romance. Many of us have experiences of suffering from an unaccomplished romance. At the beginning, the man’s “I” still tries to catch a glimpse of hope in words spoken by the loved one. However, as he notices every word that defies his expectations and each single motion that refuses his hope, an uprush of sadness and anger seizes his “I” and thrusts it into unbearable suffering. Then, while holding every negative emotion, he still has to do his daily routines, dragging himself along. An insurmountable distance separates him from his loved one. While this happens, the woman stands right there in front of him, but at the same time, beyond an unbeatable distance, as the Other who denies all the wishes and desires he embraces. But what could he and the woman do, facing this absolute sense of separation? For him, there is no way to tell how she is feeling his suffering. They are two isolated egos with opposing interests, with “my” hopes, desires, wishes and as well as “my” sufferings. He is an “I” who cannot satisfy his hopes and desires, and the woman is also an isolated “I” who must be harboring her own desires and wishes amid bitter pains and sufferings. He could never be she, and she could never be he. There is no room for empathy. But if they are two individuals who are open to Compassion, they could be aware of the pains of each other. This awareness of the suffering of Other quells the anger of his “I” as a person left behind and makes bearable for him the fact that he was not accepted by the woman, and the ensuing pains and sufferings.

4. A case of a married couple The second example is a case of a married couple who appeared in an NHK TV program in 2004, and a radio program broadcast in 2014. When the TV program was broadcast, the husband was 42 and working as a high school teacher. He had been also passionately engaging himself in activities for discriminated communities. The wife used to work at the same high school as a clerk. She was attracted by his earnest involvement in antidiscrimination activities and eventually they got married. The couple had two daughters who were 13 and 7 when the TV program was broadcast. Since his childhood, the husband always desired to “have a woman’s body” and “wear girls’ clothes.” But he never actually wore female clothes in the presence of other members of the family both before and after his marriage. At the high school where he was teaching, his fashion and appearance, as well as his teaching style, were clearly those of male teachers. He never expressed his female side to anyone else until he reached his mid-30s. In 1997, when he was 35, he encountered the word “transgender” and realized that he himself was transgender. Still, he didn’t allow himself anything beyond wearing women’s clothes in secret. But one day a gay acquaintance asked him, “are you wholeheartedly practicing a transgender way of life?” That question

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inspired him to think, “I should live in the gender I wish for.” When he was 37, he told his wife that he identified as transgender. Since this moment of his coming out, he’s been living as a woman with his wife as his partner and with two daughters. In recent years, according to his account in the radio program, he has inaugurated and committed himself to a support program for younger generation transgenders who have similar difficulties. Now the wife had never suspected his gender identity and never doubted his masculinity up until the day her husband came out. There was no reason for doubt. They have daughters, and he had never shown any signs of cross-gender interests or behaviors in her presence. But now, suddenly, the husband came out as being transgender and started expressing himself as a woman in their shared everyday life. Naturally, the wife was astounded. The hitherto unshakable ground of her everyday life was suddenly shaken and started crumbling. That her husband was a man, of course, was a quite undoubtable fact for her. But suddenly a strange woman appeared from inside him and robbed her of her husband. The image she had projected onto her husband was peeled off, and from beneath, a total stranger, a woman, appeared to replace him. Moreover, her husband, now with a strange woman’s appearance, still went out as if that was the most natural thing and continued teaching his students. It is quite understandable if she were to become anxious and fearful of how the school and people around would see her husband, herself, and their family in such a strange state. Would this sudden coming out not affect the life of their daughters? They might get badly teased by friends, and their future could get seriously distorted or even ruined, causing all of them unbearable pain. As described earlier, the persona the husband used to wear was an image of a rather manly teacher. Since childhood, he had a strong desire to “live as a woman,” but he was cautious enough to draw a line between his desire and his reality, and suppressed his desires to bring them under his control. Then, why did he decide to come out? It might have been “she,” the woman in himself who decided rather than he. In any case, it was him who made the final decision for himself. He was now to expose his inner image, to bring the so far tightly concealed “woman in himself ” to the light of day. It must have been a very strong desire of his inner woman, and it is possible to say that her desire was finally fulfilled thanks to the very bold decision on his side. That he had been ardently involved in anti-discrimination activities seems to have some psychological significance as a backdrop for his decision to come out. He was a man who had engaged himself in activities for socially vulnerable, minority people, whom society tended to exclude and discriminate against. Has his way of life evolved out of his sense of justice? I think it would have been a result of him being able to feel the presence of minorities, both inside and outside of himself and of giving them a voice so that they could find their life inside and outside. He is a person who is capable of all this. So, for him it must have been, in a way, quite natural to realize that he should give life to that minority woman in his psyche. Despite social stereotypes against gays and members of discriminated

On compassion 113 communities, he seems to have an ability in himself to question such a widely and tacitly shared tendency and promote transformation of our collective attitude. It appears to me that it was this ability he has and ample energy supply assigned to it that drove him to come out and commit himself to a self-realization, his individuation process, in such a unique manner. Meanwhile, he must have expected that his decision would bring risks to his family, and that his wife would be shocked and extremely shaken. Still, he made up his mind to express himself as a woman and to live as that woman. I presume yet another background factor for his decision in addition to his aforementioned ability: his unspoken trust in his partner’s capacity to eventually come to terms with his unexpected decision. Now, let us return to the wife’s view point. The husband’s coming out turned her familiar world upside down. In fact, according to what the husband said in the radio program, on the very morning when he told her that he was a transgender, his wife had had a dream of a Japanese five-story pagoda which was reversed and was sinking. The household, which the couple had built together with much care, that tower of invaluable architectural effort, that renowned heritage that was never shaken for hundreds of years, was now put upside down and sinking down into the ground. His coming out was an event of such a scale for her. Right after his coming out, according to the husband, “she did all she could to accept” him, because she felt “otherwise, he would choose death.” She knew how difficult a decision he made. But, for her, the person who was there now could never be her husband: as a matter of fact, this person was now wearing long hair, women’s clothes, and what’s more, started taking hormone drugs to obtain a woman’s body. His body was by now gradually coming to look like a woman and becoming clearly noticeable to the family, his colleagues, and students. A while ago, the woman in him was about 20% of his whole person, but now it was 40%, and then 60%, and eventually he would be “she” completely. The husband she used to know was taken by this strange woman who quite abruptly came out of him. How could she possibly empathize with him? But a change took place. It occurred one afternoon when she was watching her daughters from the veranda, playing in the garden. According to her, as she was watching them, she somehow felt, “what’s wrong with all this?” When she realized, in her quiet contemplation or in her meditative self-reflection, that she could bear to hold that new point of view, the wife started accepting the husband who was devoted to expressing himself as a woman, although with conditions. Though it was still difficult to accept his unfamiliar behaviors, gradually she started to recognize the person who was now a woman and her husband, and accept the new queer circumstances of the couple. Her husband exerted his ability to fight with stereotypical male images and to find his own new ways of living and being. Meanwhile, the wife rid herself of stereotypes of couples and the family we tacitly share in our society, broadened her capacity, and grew to a bigger vessel which now could contain their new life as a couple. The wife was not able to empathize with her husband regardless of his suffering from gender incongruence. She herself was a victim of her own anger and agony and had a strong

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resistance to accept his change. But then she gradually started accepting her changing husband, with the ensuing transformation of their marital relationship being inevitable. The tide changed when she questioned what was wrong with all this. After that moment, her anger started subsiding, her upset mind gradually became silent, and she was able to feel that she could do well in this new relationship. I assume that was when Compassion was working in her deep psyche. *** Thus far we have examined two examples to understand how Compassion works in our relationships with others. In such circumstances as we saw in our examples, it would not be a surprise if we found the persons concerned are suffering from an agonizing lack of empathy or sympathy toward their loved ones. Our conscious mind in such a circumstance would be filled and tortured with overwhelming anger, hatred, and remorse. When we are in such a place, all positive, warm feelings towards others such as empathy lose ground. But in the depth of self-consuming emotions, a silent moment would arrive in which we could see the person so far recognized as the source of our misfortune in a new light, as a genuinely Other person. It is in this I–Thou relationship that Compassion would rise from our deep psyche to surround the two remotely separated individuals with silence.

5. Compassion and its religious significance In the previous section, we have examined characteristics of Compassion through two examples. It is my understanding that as one becomes aware of the working of Compassion in ourselves, this capacity of our psyche can be deepened to form an integral part of one’s fundamental existential attitude toward life and can support one’s relationships with others from deep within. In this sense, I also understand that Compassion is part and parcel of our religious psyche. In the following discussion, therefore, I would like to briefly shed light on Compassion and its religious meanings in Mahayana Buddhism and Christianity. In Mahayana Buddhism, the Sanskrit word “karun¸¯a,” for which the word “compassion” is usually used as the English translation, stands for “sadness that removes sufferings of all the sentient beings,” a feeling personified in Bodhisattva of Compassion (Nakamura, 2001, p. 714). a in its use in Buddhist scriptures is Now, an important characteristic of “karun¸¯” that it is often coupled with another Sanskrit word “maitrı¯” (friendship) (Nakamura et al., 2002, p. 457). In other words, “karun¸¯a” (compassion) is a feeling of sadness shown by one who “suffers together” with us rather than someone who “shows mercy to” us, though this important point is almost completely concealed by our conventional use of the Japanese word for “karun¸¯a,” or “慈悲” (Ji-hi), due to its rather strong hierarchical nuance. This emphasis of “friendship” or “camaraderie” in the Buddhist use of the word “karun¸¯a” coincides with an important characteristic of Bodhisattva figures, i.e., that they originally were sentient beings like us whose “maha¯-karun¸¯a” (great sadness/compassion) made them postpone their own deliverance from sufferings

On compassion 115 until the day when the deliverance of all other sentient beings is achieved. Among them, Avalokites¸vala (Bodhisattva of Compassion) seems to be revered the most as a symbol of compassion. Let us turn our eyes to Christianity now. As we discussed in Section 2, the word “compassion” comprises two parts: “cum” (together) and passio¯ (passion/ sufferings). Now, in Christianity, where the “passion” denotes the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, compassion seems to represent a way of life in which a person suffers together with Christ. In other words, it seems to represent an attitude toward life with which, like Christ who accepted his own cross and carried it throughout his life, one accepts one’s own unique sufferings imposed upon him or her and lives with it through one’s own life. It is what Jung (1958) calls the process of individuation or self-realization: But since man knows himself only as an ego, and the self, as a totality, is indescribable and indistinguishable from a God-image, self-realization – to put it in religious or metaphysical terms – amounts to God’s incarnation. That is already expressed in the fact that Christ is the son of God. And because individuation is an heroic and often tragic task, the most difficult of all, it involves suffering, a passion of the ego: the ordinary, empirical man we once were is burdened with the fate of losing himself in a greater dimension and being robbed of his fancied freedom of will. (para. 233) According to my understanding, compassion in Christianity in its original sense seems to be internalization of Christ, i.e., to suffer together with Christ who lives in oneself. In other words, when one pursues with one’s authentic efforts a realization of his own Self in a unique way only possible for him or her, Jesus Christ, who resides deep inside his psyche will walk with his or her “I” which suffers “passio¯.” But I would not consider without reservation compassion in the above sense as a general attitude embraced in this religion due to a critical remark by Akita (2013, p. 32) which I understand as significant. He points out a common tendency in Christianity of projecting one’s own sins and sufferings to the external image of Christ on the cross, in effect making him carry all their burdens. *** In this section, we have discussed briefly the significance of compassion in Mahayana Buddhism and Christianity. As we discussed earlier, “karun¸¯a,” (the original Sanskrit word for compassion) which means “removal of sufferings” or “sadness that removes the sufferings of sentient beings,” is given significant importance in Mahayana tradition. Following this, however, I would like to discuss a positive meaning of “bearing one’s sufferings” which I think is also important, though I do not intend to compromise the value of “removal of sufferings.” In the quote from Jung on the passion of Christ, he shows us the image of Christ as an archetypal symbol of individuation. Now my question is, if God did not incarnate in Jesus Christ, or in other words, if Christ did not experience

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the sufferings of the passion, could he possibly realize himself as Jesus Christ? Although this question might sound rhetorical, in the depth of our everyday reality, Christ is an important symbol of our own individuation. Could we possibly approach a realization of our Self if we do not carry our own cross? The thought of the “removal of sufferings” in Mahayana Buddhism seems to have an exhaustible value for our life, for example, in medical care for terminally ill patients. When, for instance, someone involved in a hospice care helps a patient on his deathbed look back on his life and learn about the approaching death as well as the new world and the new life so that he can accept in his remaining days his own death, such an activity represents powerful significance of the removal of both physical and psychological sufferings. Meanwhile, there are sufferings that accompany individuation for which Christ himself serves as a symbol and for us who are still in the process of our own life it seems meaningful to bear our own sufferings. The following is a dream quoted from Hillman (1988): I was walking on the sandy beach. I came upon something very dead and decaying -a large St. Bernard dog. I looked closer. Its belly was wide open and filled with luminous larvae or eggs – like bubbles glistening in the sun. First, I felt grossly repulsed. Then I looked again and the dog was my father. Then I looked back again and the eggs had wiggly little bugs or crabs in them that hatched and crawled en masse off into the sea. I felt good about it then. The old body had given new life to these creatures. It looked beautiful instead of gross. The sun glistened on the dog and the waves. (pp. 53–54) In this dream, Hillman (1988, pp. 53–54) notes, “the bugs in the body of the old dog may be occurring in the turmoil and ugly repulsion felt in regard to an actual affiction in daily affairs. . . . Psychic life breeds invisible in the belly of the concrete, and it will out.” In other words, the daily reality where much suffering is inflicted upon us is the locus where the process of individuation takes place. Here, we can remind ourselves of the couple in the second example we discussed in Section 4. When the husband started to express himself as a woman, the wife was angered and started to suffer from aversion and hatred. However, one day in the middle of her incessant pain and agony, amid now defunct ordinariness of her family life, she realized that she could still live with her new reality. That is how her quest for a new way of their life together started. Though the appearance of her husband as a woman was unacceptable to her, it seems that she became aware that this unknown woman reflected his inner reality and started to accept him. Their decision to stay in their marital relationship, which they probably discussed at some point, might have been just one option among many others. The main motivation behind their choice might have been a realistic one such as their sense of responsibility as parents toward their children’s future rather than

On compassion 117 their willingness to remain in their married life. But regardless of what motivations they had, their decision appears to be appropriate because the processes of individuation of the two seem to be resonating with each other in their state of suffering together. In their actual life riddled with sufferings, their transformation for self-realization is being promoted. Their case reminds us once again of the importance of carrying our sufferings through our own everyday reality. In conclusion, I would like to note that it is when we as individuals become aware of other individuals, as in the case of this couple, that compassion rises to our conscious mind and becomes integrated into our deep-seated, existential attitude toward life. “Removal of sufferings” could occur with positive meaning when we recognize those important to us, our loved ones, as Other beings who are suffering in their daily lives just like us.

Note This chapter is based on the presentation given at the 2019 IAJS Regional Conference, Osaka, Japan, which was published afterwards in Journal of Hermes Psychotherapy Seminar, vol. 25, in August 2020 from Hermes Shinri Ryoho Kenkyu Hakkojo.

References Akita, I. (2013) Hito wa Naze Kizutsuku Noka -Igyo no Jiko to Kuroi Seikon [Why Do We Get Hurt – The Disfigured Hero and a Black Stigma], Tokyo: Kodansha. Hillman, J. (1988) “Going Bugs”, SPRING, 40–72. Dallas: Spring Publications. Japan Broadcasting Corporation. Retrieved from NHK Online. Available HTTPS: (accessed 30 October 2019) Jung, C. G. (1958) “A Psychological Approach to the Dogma of the Trinity”, in R.F.C. Hull, trans. Psychology and Religion: West and East. The Collected Works of C. G. Jung 11, 107–200. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Nakamura, H. (2001) Kosetsu Bukkyogo Daijiten [Grand Dictionary of Buddhist Terminology], Tokyo: Tokyo Shoseki. Nakamura, H., Fukunaga, M., Tamura, Y., Konno, T., and Sueki, F. (eds.) (2002) Iwanami Bukkyo Jiten [Iwanami Dictionary of Buddhism] (2nd ed.), Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten.

11 Ensou and tree view therapy Zen-based psychotherapy from Hisamatsu and Kato theory Kojiro Miwa

1. Introduction One of the important themes in psychiatric practice is how to understand the simple form of self-expression by patients. The person with mental disorder in a psychiatric hospital, who is with schizophrenia, depression, dementia, or the like, expresses themselves in a simple way. Especially, people with chronic schizophrenia, those whom I contact every day in my practice, are characterized by autistic behavior, little speech, and extremely little self-expression. How can therapists interact with people who have severe mental illness, as they don’t communicate verbally? This is one of the problems which have been tackled for a long time by the therapists in the psychiatry field. For example, there are some approaches using nonverbal expression techniques, such as music, dance, clay therapy, and drawing. Especially drawing a picture has been widely used as a psychological test and psychotherapy. Drawing not only shows mental status but also promotes verbal expression (Nakai 1971), which helps therapists to communicate with these patients. How does a therapist understand a client’s mind from their drawing? The therapist tries to contact with the client's psychological process which represent in their drawing. In case verbal communication with the client is difficult, the therapist’s understanding of their nonverbal expression affects the process of their therapy. I would like to provide clues about how to understand the “simple expression” of the pictures drawn by patients in a psychiatric hospital. These clues can contribute to understanding the mind of these people and help in providing therapy for them.

2. Hisamatsu and Jung conversation I take up a picture of Ensou circle that is drawn in one stroke by Zen priest. It would represent the state of Zen enlightenment. If people see this picture, they will have some questions. “What paints?” and “What does the painting mean?” Ensou is a simplistic expression. At first glance, people those who have not studied Zen would find it difficult to understand what it means. I thought that understanding such expression could be applied to understanding the simple

Ensou and tree view therapy 119 expression of patients with chronic mental disorder. To answer the question of what is Ensou, I refer to two theories: one is of C. G. Jung and the other is of Shinichi Hisamatsu. Hisamatsu was a Zen philosopher. While studying at Kyoto University, he was a student of the philosopher Kitaro Nishida. Nishida was a prominent philosopher of Zen Buddhism in Japan, who was famous for “Study of the good.” Nishida studied the primitive pure experience, which is before the subject and the object separate. Hisamatsu followed Nishida’s philosophy, that is, the idea of the primordial Buddhist ontology of self. When he was in Kyoto University, Hisamatsu got stuck in his studies. Through Nishida’s introduction, Hisamatsu started practicing Zen. He experienced enlightenment in Zen training. Thereafter he continued to practice Zen Buddhism while teaching at a university. In 1957, Hisamatsu traveled around the world with the purpose of spreading his ideas. During this journey, he conversed with some of important thinkers of his time: Martin Buber, Martin Heidegger, C. G. Jung, and others. The conversation between Jung and Hisamatsu took place at Jung’s home in Küsnacht, Switzerland. There were many problems: one was they didn’t understand precisely the ideological background of each other and there was a problem with interpretation of both languages. Therefore, evaluation of this conversation is divided. There are negative opinions such as “they came to a mutual misunderstanding” (Muramoto 1998). Jung also told that this meeting “is a most delicate and correspondingly dangerous procedure” (Jung 1960). Jung took a cautious stance on the issue. On the other hand, Fujiyoshi, who was accompanied by Hisamatsu, described about statement of Jung as “It was impressive” (Fujiyoshi 1987). Hisamatsu recognized it as “an important remark” (Hisamatsu 1959, p. 397). The essential point of their discussion was Hisamatsu’s question is that there a possibility people will be liberated from the root of their suffering, collective unconscious (Hisamatsu 1959). Jung answered “Yes” (Muramoto 2002). It was a significant difference from Jung’s previous concept. From Jung’s thought, selfactualization directs the goal of totality, but he did not think about releasing human beings from the origin of their sufferings (Jung 1948. par557). In this conversation, Hisamatsu concluded that “[t]he passage from psychoanalysis to Zen opened” (Hisamatsu 1939a). Jung said, “I appreciated his visit very highly indeed and am very grateful to him for the trouble he took to enlighten my ignorance” (Jung 1960). From this statement of Jung, it is clear that he understood Hisamatsu’s intention, although there were differences of language and cultural background. Both Jung and Hisamatsu emphasized the importance of interpersonal interaction in their theory. They were excellent practitioners of human dialogue. Therefore, it is difficult to support the view that it was a meaningful experience for Hisamatsu alone. However, there was no trace of Jung pursuing Hisamatsu’s suggestion. Kato¯, a psychiatrist who studied under Hisamatsu, said that they had a deep encounter with each other and “The Western psychotherapists became a religionists, and the Eastern religionists became a psychotherapists, and there was a

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mutual exchange of positions” (Kato¯ 1996). I think that was an important meeting for both, analytical psychologist and Zen philosopher in terms of psychological interaction.

3. What Ensou means? The text of their dialogue is included in Hisamatsu’s book of his collected works. In this book, Hakuin Zenji’s drawing of “Ensou” is arranged on the page of Jung and Hisamatsu conversation.1 Hisamatsu edited the pictures of this book, and he had intentionally inserted the Ensou drawing into this page. Hisamatsu also published an essay of Zen art and had deep insight into them. I consider that Hisamatsu arranged the Ensou with a symbolic meaning about this conversation text with Jung. What is the meaning of this Ensou circle? Ensou describes the enlightenment of Zen Buddhism. This circular motif is originally drawn in the famous Kakuan “Jugyuzu” of the eighth picture. This empty circle represents Self-centric functioning of the psyche “as depicting the fully manifested activity of the Buddha-nature, or the Self, in the conscious life of a practitioner whose ego functions in the service of the Self ” (Miyuki 1985, pp. 199–200). After Jugyuzu was imported to Japan, Ensou was independently used as a single painting. In analytical psychology, the circle has been described as a symbol of wholeness, Self. If people actually draw a circle, they can see drawing a circle is a result of the line while controlling the tension between the inside and the outside. If there is hesitation or lack of strength, the shape of the circle will surely collapse. The mental state, which is symbolically inside and outside of the human mind, immediately appears in the Ensou drawing. Ensou has been used as an iconographic image independently in Japan. It is one of the important motifs in Japanese Zen art. According to the theory of Hisamatsu, Zen art represents the “Formless self.” There is an emptiness aspect of the true self, Formless self, in which people enter a state of freedom from all ideas and all thoughts in complete serenity. This self encompasses an all-being aspect and coexists with the state of freedom from any intention and simultaneously creates any form. These are the functions and essence of the true self (Hisamatsu 1956). In conversation with Jung, Hisamatsu said that Zen is to free humans from the origin of sufferings. The purpose of Zen enlightenment is to go beyond the being of everything, true self. In other words, it is to stop the working of Self-archetype in terms of analytical psychology. Hisamatsu argued about the “Formless Self.” “Formless” means to deny the form of all things. Ensou represents the state of Zen enlightenment, that is, “Formless Self.” Thus, Ensou is an extremely simple expression as a picture. Consequently, Ensou represents the state where everything becomes zero, emptiness. On the contrary, there is a Mandala in Buddhism, which symbolized character of what world existence is. That is a circular figure like Ensou. Buddhism

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Figure 11.1 Structure of archetypal Self and Formless self

Mandala represents the entire world in a complex figure. Jung mentioned about Tibetan Mandala “World Wheel,” it represents the world (Jung 1950). Comparing these two symmetrical figures, Ensou represents the direction toward emptiness, which is the origin of the world, “formless.” Mandala represents the world where everything exists, “formed.” Ensou is a symbolized image of going toward world origin. Mandala is returning from its origin. Both circular figures are symbolic expressions that are related to Self-archetype. I consider that is the reason why Hisamatsu selected Ensou as an illustration for the text of a conversation with Jung. Ensou symbolically represents the Formless Self, free from origin of suffering, and the Self-archetype, origin of world.

4. Simplistic expression applies to therapy I would discuss about art therapy based on simple expressions. Art therapy aims to produce therapeutic effects by using artistic expression and contact with unconsciousness. An important factor of art therapy is the existence of therapist by client side. The relationship between therapist and client is based on openness and sheltered space (Kalff 1966) and is important, for example, the sandplay therapy. During the process of psychotherapy, the client can express their mind deeply based on the support from the therapist. To provide therapy for the

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client, the therapist must also prepare to come into contact with the deep layer of unconsciousness. Applying simple expressions as therapy is a key factor in the relationship between the client and the therapist. Hisamatsu emphasized when appreciating works of Zen art, the viewer needs to have a deep understanding about Zen. “You must have a good knowledge of religious things” (Hisamatsu 1939b). The artist and the viewer will see simultaneously what is in deep mind through Zen artworks. This coincides with Jung’s emphasis on transference and counter-transference and the therapist’s personality effects in their therapy processes (Jung 1946). To understand the client’s drawing, even a simple drawing shows the deep mind like Zen art, the therapist himself must have an empirical understanding of the deep mind. This may be a similar view of Jung in psychotherapy, who emphasized the empirical understanding of clients’ mind by therapist and the personality of therapist. There is an art therapy, which seems to have been applied by Hisamatsu’s theory of Zen art. This is called “tree view therapy” by Kato¯. Kiyoshi Kato¯ was a psychiatrist and a pioneer in transpersonal psychology in Japan. He said that Hisamatsu was his teacher. I assume that Kato¯ devised tree view therapy by applying the Baum test with Zen art theory. In the tree view therapy, a client draws a picture and “Brief comments should be made to assist in the development and continuation of their psychotherapy. In many cases, therapist expressed the positive aspects of patient’s drawing in a single word, in order to leave an aftereffect on their mind and to motivate the next drawing.”(Kato¯ 2011, p. 32) This method is similar with Zen Koan. Koan is the interaction between master and pupil. In Koan dialogue, the master leads the pupil to transcend conceptual contradictions of a paradoxical riddle and to understand Zen enlightenment. In tree view therapy, the therapist, as an observer, comments to reveal the true figure in the client’s mind. Through comments from the therapist, the client finds out the truth of own mind, true self. It is a therapeutic effect. “The nature of trees represents the way of people encountering all nature. In other words, the deep ecological encounter deepens the treatment, heal and insight of their mind. Here is the essence of tree view therapy” (Kato¯ 2011, p. 19). In Koan, a master talks to his pupil so that they can understand the true self. The pupil learns their true self through their master’s words. In tree view therapy, a therapist looks at a client’s tree and also sees the client’s self. The therapist makes a comment and through these comments, the client has insight into their real self. Koan and tree view therapy resemble in this concept, recognizing the true self through interaction between human relationships. How can this tree view therapy apply in clinical practice? Kato¯ describes the mind of patients with schizophrenia as avidya¯, ignorance. Avidya¯ is a state of not seeing the Buddhism truth. Analytical psychology describes a schizophrenic state as a state in which their ego is overwhelmed by strong unconscious (Jung 1939, par. 531). This concept is similar with avidya¯. On the schizophrenic state, their ego is overwhelmed by unconscious content and is in dysfunction. Patients with schizophrenia are always in a state of uncertainty. They cannot understand what

Ensou and tree view therapy 123 happens in their minds. In order to get the stability of ego function, they need to connect the unconscious with their ego, supported by a stable structure. Furthermore, they need to know what happens in their mind. That tree picture plays the role of this support. It provides a stable connection between ego and unconscious, and suggests what happens in their mind by a symbolic figure. In tree view therapy, the tree ensures this connection between ego and unconscious, and controls the confused relationship between them. However, in patients with severe schizophrenia, even the therapist’s minor comment can easily upset their mental state. In such cases, reading the small expression of the patient is an important factor to create a therapeutic procedure. But the response of the therapist is sometimes problematic in their practice of therapy.

5. Case in psychiatric hospital This is an example of my case that is a Baum test drawn by a person with chronic schizophrenia. His face was always tense. He did not express his feelings, just a response of “Yes” or “No” to staff’s call. He lived with little movement from his bed, but no physical problems. The medical record had little personal information. Without any hope of leaving the hospital, he remained for more than 10 years in social hospitalizations. I became the ward’s psychologist where he is in. Then I did a Baum test to determine the patient’s mental condition. In the first meeting, he entered, prompted by the staff’s call, into my consulting room. After introducing myself, I held out a piece of paper and said. “I want you to draw only one tree” and handed him a pencil. He looked at me for a while, looked at me again and again and drew a thin line. I asked him. “What kind of tree is this?” He answered “Low.” Suddenly, he stood up frightened and left the room. After that, he never talked to me again. What does this simple line represent? Even if it looks like a scribble, it might look a meaningless line. But I think it’s an essential expression that patients created in the relationship with the outside world. I thought carefully about the meaning of this line. He drew a line of only a few centimeters in a pure white space. It seemed to show what he is. In the outside world, his very weak ego is revealed and easily overwhelmed by the influence of the surrounding world. When he tried to stay in the real world with such weak ego, he is instantly overwhelmed by the pressure of the surroundings. His word of “Low” is not only about the height of his tree. He may be in extremely low position in the world. He has low social skills and low social status. He can only live in such a low position. I think that this is a low tree same as just sprouted plants. What can a therapist do to this vulnerable tree drawn by him? If the therapist tries to grow this tree, he or she will fail. Therapists have to protect this tree from dying as much as possible. He already had an autistic attitude, which is a defense response. Maintaining this attitude is protecting his weak ego. What is

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needed is to create an environment to protect this tree, which symbolizes his weak ego. Therefore, I tried to avoid hearing his thought and opinion as much as possible. On the other hand, I tried to establish a relationship with the ward staff and engage group activities, leisure and group meetings in the ward. I worked on creating an environment. Consequently, he was always in his room, but sometimes came out his room to check these activities on the lounge/dining. And he occasionally smiled. In this case, the therapist tried to create an environment to protect his ego, based on the findings of mental state from his Baum test. This approach protects the patient’s weak ego and resulted in his mental stability. The therapist must understand the client’s mental state from their expression. Hisamatsu discusses about Nishida’s calligraphy, “Watching his calligraphy, I try to experience his life moving in it. Then I feel that something similar to teacher’s heart, which lurks deep in my heart too, is moving” (Hisamatsu 1952). In other words, the therapist senses the client’s psychological movements through the lines of their expression. At the same time, the therapist changes his or her mind, creating a transference relationship with the client’s mind. This is deeply connected with the Japanese traditional Buddhism idea that the mind resides in the object. In the unconscious realm, “Things and Me” lie on the same level. This idea is also included in Yuishiki (Vijñapti-ma¯trata¯) of Buddhism, and it was introduced into the Zen sect through Ryogakyo (Lan˙ka¯vata¯ra Su¯tra). In the person’s deep mind, their self and others are undivided. Hisamatsu’s formless self is based on this Buddhism concept. From the standpoint of the formless self, the observer can see the existence of the entire world which is included in a simple line. In my case, he drew the primitive moment when he born from formless self into formed self. From his drawing, the therapist planned an approach to support nascent, primitive, and weak ego. It is an important case approach based on the understanding of the patient’s mind, which was expressed in a simplistic way.

6. Conclusion There are two possible directions to understand a simple expression of clients. One is the essence of self, formless self, reading from a simple line, like Ensou. The other is the enormous world, like Mandala, included also in the simple expression. In order to consider about the simple expression in psychotherapy, it is necessary to understand that of the two directions one is formless self, the origin of world, and the other is formed self, the entire world. In my case, a simple line revealed his essential state of highly vulnerable ego. The lines represented his view about the world as his living in a very low position and an overwhelming world. Consequently, their expression helps the therapist to understand the true nature of patients’ minds and the world they are experiencing. This is an essential clue for applying the Zen philosophy to psychotherapy.

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Note 1 Original drawing is Hakuin Zenji (18c), Ensouuzu. 46.8×55.6 cm. Eiseibunko. Tokyo. In this quotation, the image was trimmed on a circle only in Hisamatsu’s collected works Vol. 1 p. 348.

References Fujiyoshi, J. (1987) Zensya Hisamatsu Shinnichi [Zen human, Shinnichi Hisamatsu], Hozokan, Kyoto, Japan Hisamatsu, S. (1939a) Hisamatsu’s Commentary on the Conversation. Daniel, J.M, Robert, L.M, trans, edit Self and Liveration the Jung-Buddhism Dialogue, Paulist Press, New York, 1960, pp. 116–118 Hisamatsu, S. (1939b) Zen-geijutu no rikai [Understanding of Zen Arts], Collected Works of Hisamatsu Shinichi, Vol. 5. Zen to Geijutu [Zen and Art] Risousha, 1970, Japan, p. 96 Hisamatsu, S. (1952) Nishida Kitaro sensei no syo to bi [Calligraphy and Beauty of Kitaro Nishida’s], Collected Works of Hisamatsu Shinichi, Vol. 5. Zen to Geijutu [Zen and Art] Risousha, 1970, Japan Hisamatsu, S. (1956) Zen-bijutu no seikaku [Character of Zen Arts], Collected Works of Hisamatsu Shinichi, Vol. 5. Zen to Geijutu [Zen and Art] Risousha, 1970, Japan Hisamatsu, S. (1959) Muisiki to Musin [Unconscious and Nonattachment], Collected Works of Hisamatsu Shinichi, Vol. 1. Touyouteki Mu [Oriental Emptiness] Risousha, Japan Jung, C. G. (1939) On the Psychogenesis of Schizophrenia, Collected Works, Vol. 3, par. 531 Jung, C. G. (1946) Die Psychologie Übertragung [The Psychology of the Transference], Collected Works, Vol. 16 Jung, C. G. (1948) Vom Wesen der Träume [On the Nature of Dreams], Collected Works, Vol. 8, par. 557 Jung, C. G. (1950) Über Mandalasymbolik [Concerning Mandala Symbolism], Collected Works, Vol. 9. par. 644 Jung, C. G. (1960) Jung’s Commentary on the Conversation: A Letter to the Original Transcript. Psychologia. Meckel, D.J., Moore, R.L., trans, edit Self and Liveration. The Jung-Buddhism Dialogue, Paulist Press, New York, 1960, pp. 114–115 Kalff, D.M. (1966) Sandspiel Rascher Verlag, Stuttgart, Zürich Kato¯, K. (1996) Iyashi no Mori: Shinri-ryouhou to syuukyou [Therapeutic Forest: Psychotherapy and Religion], Sougensya, Osaka, Japan, p. 2. Kato¯, K., and Marui, N. (2011) Mokkei ryouhou [Tree View Therapy Dynamic Treatment by Tree Drawing], Sogensha, Osaka, Japan Miyuki, M. (1985) Self Realization in the Ten Oxherdig Pictures, in Buddhism and Jungian Psychology, Falcon Press. reprint, edit Meckel, D.J, Moore, R.L. Self and Liveration The Jung-Buddhism Dialogue, Paulist Press, New York, 1960, pp. 181–205 Muramoto, S. (1998) Jung and Buddhism. Studies of the International Research Institute for Zen Buddhism, Vol. 6, the International Research Institute for Zen Buddhism, Hanazono University Muramoto, S., trans (2002) The Jung-Hisamatsu Conversation Translated from Aniera Jaffé’s Original German Protocol. Young-Eisendrath, P., Muramoto, S.

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Awaking and Insight, Zen Buddhism and Psychotherapy, New York, Routledge, 2002, pp. 109–121 Nakai, H. (1971) Seisin-bunretubyousya no seisinnryouhou niokeru byouga no riyou [An Application of Drawing at Psychotherapy of the Person with Schizophrenia], Geijutu-ryouhou. 2. Nihon geijutu ryouhou gakkai. Nakai Hisao collected works Seisin-igaku no keikenn, Vol. 1. Bunretubyou [Schizophreia]. Iwasaki gakujutusyuppansya, Japan, 1984

12 Drawings without a tree in response to the Baum test by a patient with refractory chronic schizophrenia The fundamental individuation process in an affected patient Himeka Matsushita Introduction The Baum test: a useful technique for patients with refractory chronic schizophrenia Despite progress in medical science and advances in medical care, there are still patients with refractory chronic schizophrenia who require prolonged hospitalization. Most of these patients have severe symptoms such as schizophrenic delusion, self-disturbance, or emotional blunting and have difficulties with verbal communication. The Baum test (Koch, 1957) or tree-drawing test is a clinical psychological technique used to understand affected patients. It acts as “both a projective psychological examination as well as a supplementary psycho-diagnostic tool” (Kaneda et al., 2010). Yamanaka (1976) emphasized “the apical termination” in the Baum test as the way in which the top end of a trunk is processed or treated, be it “closed,” “opened,” “forked,” or other. According to him, whether the top end of a tree trunk is closed or open reflects the drawer’s psychological “boundary” between the inner and outer space. Kaneda et al. (2010) confirmed quantitatively that schizophrenic patients drew more trees with open-ended trunks than healthy controls. However, the key aspect of the apical termination lies in its usefulness not only as a screening method but also in understanding patients with schizophrenia. Yamanaka (1976) noted that tree drawings by schizophrenic patients with delusions often had “open-ended trunks,” including those with a “funnel-shaped” or wider-opening top end than bottom end and “Möbius trees,” which appear to be both a single tree and two trees because of having branches to the inside as well as the outside of the trunk (see Figure 12.1). Based on psychological clinical practice in psychiatry, Matsushita (2005) suggested that these types of tree drawings could be interpreted as expressions of a transitional struggle of attempting to integrate the “opposites.” Furthermore, patients with refractory chronic schizophrenia often produce drawings “without a tree or trees” in a general sense on the Baum test, including

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Figure 12.1 Three types of tree drawings with “open-ended trunks” by schizophrenic patients

one that appears to be so due to the peculiarity of the apical termination. Although such drawings are often considered to be mere manifestations of symptoms, they may contribute to the psychological understanding of schizophrenics. However, the theme of Baum drawings without a tree or trees is a frontier of the research and no detailed study has yet been conducted on this topic. Patients who produce such drawings often have difficulty with verbal communication, which makes research on this theme important.

Expressions in the Baum test: images of the individuation process Jung (1954/1967) considered expressions or representations of a tree image as “the self, depicted as a process of growth” (CW13 §304) or the individuation process (CW13 §393). Jung (1921/1971, CW6 §757) defines individuation as “a process of differentiation, having for its goal the development of the individual personality.” Jung (1921/1971) defines the ego as “the subject of my consciousness,” the self as “the subject of my total psyche, which also includes the unconscious,” and considered “the activity of the unconscious as a balancing of the one-sidedness of the general attitude produced by the function of consciousness” (CW6, §706). Individuation is supported by this compensation function, which appears first as a “shadow,” or a negative image of the same sex, second as an “anima/

Drawings without a tree in response to the Baum test 129 animus,” or an image of the opposite sex. However, Hillman (1985) reviewed and condensed Jung’s anima/animus notion into “anima” as “the feminine principle (represented by conjunction etc.)” and “animus” as “the masculine principle (represented by discrimination etc.).” In this study, the term “anima/ animus” is used in this meaning. Thus, studying the significance of such drawings from perspective of Jung on opposites will contribute to the psychological understanding of severe chronic schizophrenic patients.

Aims and objectives This decade-long longitudinal case study aimed to conduct in-depth analysis of a series of drawings “without a tree” in response to the Baum test, which were produced by inpatients with refractory chronic schizophrenia, to discover the essential features and meanings of expression in those drawings.

Methods Subjects and procedures This study is based on data from a series of drawing sessions in inpatients with schizophrenia in a psychiatric hospital, which are continued every six months on each ward as part of psychological treatment. Each session allows patients to voluntarily choose whether to attend, and although the intervals between sessions vary among patients, most have been attending for years so far. Participants were asked to sit comfortably in front of a large table in a group session room in a safe and secure environment, with clinical psychologists and health-care professionals in attendance, and were asked to “draw a picture of a fruit tree” using a 2B pencil and an eraser on a white B5 or A4 size paper. Approximately 500 participants yielded approximately 7,000 drawings over 10 years. Half of the participants produced drawings “without a tree” in a general sense, which were classified by a clinical psychologist with more than 20 years of experience into two groups: one group that always produced drawings without a tree and the other that sometimes produced drawings with tree-like objects. In this study, Patient A, a female, was selected as a typical subject from the latter group, and a series of drawings by her were analyzed in detail. This research obtained approval from the ethical perspective by the institute, and the descriptions of personal information of the subject were generally minimized to protect her anonymity.

Results: Patient A Patient A drew eight drawings (A-1 to A-8) over a period of six years and ten months. The results of medical examinations around the time of the last drawing session demonstrated improvement in schizophrenic symptoms, including fewer delusions than when she began participating in the Baum test sessions.

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The main features of each of her eight drawings are extracted and described as part of a gradual and incomplete healing process, and five drawings (A-1, A-3, A-4, A-6, A-7) are listed in order of their creation in Figure 12.2 to 12.6. A-1 (see Figure 12.2): This drawing is a delusional expression, a “without a tree or trees” type of one in a general sense. However, this drawing features two forms resembling trees or plants. One is a tree with a “funnelshaped” open-ended trunk, which is drawn using multiple broken lines in a dynamic but diffused expression. The other comprises three singleline trunks, which are drawn in a static expression. We can see opposite or contrasting pairs such as “open/not open,” “dynamic/static,” and “spreading horizontally/standing vertically.” These not only comprise a dichotomy, such as “if the trunk spreads out wide and grows horizontally, it will be diffused and will not be able to grow vertically,” but they are also compensatory to each other. A-2 (Five months after A-1) features a pair of a tree and a woman, equivalent to the two categories of organisms, “plants/animals.” A-3 (see Figure 12.3: two years and one month; the interval from A-2 was one year and eight months): The form of expression is much higher quality than A-1 and A-2. There are two pairs of a woman with an animal and a tree. The psychological function of differentiation is activated. The two trees differ in form. One is a forked tree with a two-line trunk, differentiated in a two-branched form, in contrast to the “funnel-shaped” trunks found in A-1, which are diffuse at the apical end. The other tree has three single-line trunks, with a central axis and two long basal shoots, in contrast to the three single-line trees in A-1 that stand parallel to each other. A-4 (see Figure 12.4: two years and six months; Interval: five months): A landscape expression including a combination of a tree and a woman. The tree trunk looks like a path, and the woman appears to be inside the tree. A-5 (three years and nine months; Interval: one year and three months): Although the tree by delusional representation, it embodies a contrasting conjunction of branches with a static form on the left and a dynamic form on the right. A-6 (see Figure 12.5: five years and three months; Interval: one year and six months): Taking a much more concrete expression from the abstract A-5, the fruit and the woman are on a T-shaped tree. A-7 (see Figure 12.6: five years and ten months; Interval: seven months): The process searching for integration of separation and conjunction of opposites has advanced. This drawing has a vertical structure, with the sun and a tree on the upper side, and a woman on the lower side. A borderline and fruits separate and connect both sides. A-8 (six years and ten months; Interval: one year): Tree with an upright trunk and branches drawn in smooth lines. The top of the trunk is not completely closed, but not funnel-shaped. A horizontal line arises at the base of the tree and birds are flying.

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Figure 12.2 Patient A’s drawing (A-1)

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Figure 12.3 Patient A’s drawing (A-3)

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Figure 12.4 Patient A’s drawing (A-4)

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Figure 12.5 Patient A’s drawing (A-6)

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Figure 12.6 Patient A’s drawing (A-7)

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Discussion and conclusion 1) The first drawing seems weak The first drawing, A-1, was based on a delusional representation and was of the type “without a tree or trees” in a general sense, reflecting her mental functioning at the time. The “funnel-shaped” open-ended trunks represented vulnerable psychological boundaries while the single-line trunks were interpreted as indicating vulnerability in ego-strength. However, the form of representation was dramatically improved step by step.

2) Tree images and their opposites The expression of a process for integration of separation and conjunction between opposites was found. Patient A was considered to have had a psychological theme of integration between “having a central axis” and “psychological differentiation,” which was considered to be expressed as a contrastive image. A-1 has two different types of trees; a tree with an open-ended trunk and trees with a single-line trunk. Here, we see the opposites of “open/not open,” “spreading horizontally/standing vertically,” and “dynamic/static.” “Openended” implies vulnerability of psychological boundaries, as mentioned earlier, but, on the other hand, the features of “funnel-shaped” wider opening can be considered to reflect the potentiality of integrating binominal opposition. Furthermore, it is important that three trees with single trunks are drawn parallel to the tree with the open-ended trunk. This may signify that the patient’s ego is spreading horizontally and diffusing as well as attempting to provide consistency and verticality. She had fundamental psychological problems related to “having a central axis” and “psychological differentiation,” a parallel state that is expressed in A-1. The parallel representations could be seen as an indication of the potential to integrate opposing images. In fact, from A-2 to A-8, the form of expression improved qualitatively. The “funnel-shaped” trunk disappeared, and some expressions emerged of the patient’s efforts to close the open-ended trunks. The “funnel-shaped” trunk can be interpreted as the patient’s ego attempting to grasp and integrate unknown opposites, but barely standing, almost disrupted by the pull of opposing forces between opposite images. However, in later drawings, the opposite images become clearer and more concrete, step by step, and the patient’s ego becomes aware of unknown opposites and confronts contrary forces between opposites, as indicated by some expressions of straighter formed trunks or something closing an open-ended trunk.

3) A saved anima image as a living and moving soul An anima image appears as a living and moving soul in parallel with or after the process. The image of a woman in an erect posture with limbs appears in A-2.

Drawings without a tree in response to the Baum test 137 This can be regarded as a development of both “spreading horizontally/standing vertically.” Furthermore, the image of the tree–woman pair includes a quality of the opposites “plant/animal.” The image of a woman has an “animal” quality, i.e., she is a lively creature with “anima.” This anima image was separated and rescued from the profound and obscure world that was seen in A-1. This enabled the anima image to develop and to have a kind of subjectivity. This led the anima image to enter a tree (A-4), and the world has a vertical structure consisting of a tree image area and an anima image area; both areas are divided and connected by a boundary (A-7). Through these processes, A-8 appeared with an image of the integration of opposites such as “open/not open,” “spreading horizontally/ standing vertically,” and was able to represent the patient’s internal experiences as a tree image drawing. In fact, the medical examination revealed that Patient A’s symptoms had improved compared to when she began participating in the drawing sessions.

General discussion and conclusion As discussed earlier, Patient A had psychological themes related to the integration of “having a central axis” and “psychological differentiation,” and images of opposites regarding this theme were found in each process, such as “open/ not open.” After this process, the frequency with which the drawing took on a shape more similar to a tree in a general sense increased. This result can be taken to mean that the fundamental and essential individuation process is progressing in the patient with schizophrenia, even if the expression appears somewhat delusional. In more detailed discussion, the process that took place in a series of drawings paralleled the patients’ recovery of ego-strength to a certain extent. When schizophrenic symptoms, which are characterized by mental processes that are tinged with otherness, such as delusion, improve, it reflects the fact that the patient’s soul has renewed her thoughts, feelings, and life as her own, which were previously recognized, felt, and lived as others. The process has been expressed in tree drawings. First, the opposites, such as “open/not open,” are separated out from the prima materia. Second, each of the images of the separated-opposites is elaborated as the image is lived and experienced by the soul step by step. Third, after or in parallel with this, the “animal” part as the living thing with a soul is separated out to live autonomously, and this image stands by itself and develops to have content as well as to differentiate. This is paralleled with the images of integration or coexistence between “separation from each other” and “connection with each other.” Fourth, this leads to the next phase, in which a tree image in a general sense appears with more firmness and flexibility than ever. According to Jung (1921/1971, CW6, §761), individuation includes the “separation and differentiation from the general and a building up of the particular” but “one that is already ingrained in the psychic constitution.” This is the essential theme for patients with schizophrenia in a deeper sense. In summary,

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it can be assumed that in the unconscious of patients with intractable chronic schizophrenia, the potential ego and its potential opposites are mixed together, which makes it difficult to establish the ego. Therefore, this should be taken into account when examining their individuation process. It was also suggested that a fundamental and intrinsic individuation process could proceed even if the expression appears somewhat delusional. However, additional research is needed to confirm this.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Aobaoka Hospital and the patient who participated in this study.

References Hillman, J. (1985) Anima: An Anatomy of a Personified Notion. Washington, DC: Spring Publications. Jung, C.G. (1921/1971) Psychological Types, in Collected Works, Vol. 6, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C.G. (1954/1967) The Philosophical Tree, in Collected Works, Vol. 13: §304– 482, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kaneda, A., Yasui-Furukori, N., Saito, M., Sugawara, N., Nakagami, T., Furukori, H., & Kaneko, S. (2010) Characteristics of the Tree-drawing Test in Chronic Schizophrenia. Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences, 64: 141–148. Koch, C. (1957) Der Baumtest: der Baumzeichenversuch als psychodiagnostisches Hilfsmittel 3. Auflage. Bern: Verlag Hans Huber. Matsushita, H. (2005) Seishin byouin deno shinri rinsyou ni okeru Baum no imi ni tsuite [The Implications of Expressions in the Baum test Administered as Part of Clinical Psychological Practice in a Psychiatric Hospital]. In Y. Yamanaka, A. Kaito and Y. Kadono (eds.), Baum no shinri-rinshou [Psychological Clinical Practice and Theory Using the Baum Test], 248–275. Osaka, Japan: Sougen-sha. Yamanaka, Y. (1976) A Study of Baum Test in Schizophrenia. Journal of Psychometry, 12: 18–23.

Part 4

Identity and individuation

13 The house imago and the creation of order Pi-Chen Hsu and Hirofumi Kuroda

To us [the West], consciousness is inconceivable without an ego. . . . The Eastern mind, however, has no difficulty in conceiving of a consciousness without an ego. Consciousness is deemed capable of transcending its ego condition’ indeed, in its “higher” forms, the ego disappears altogether. (Jung, 1954, p. 484. Par. 774)

In the Western individualistic perspective, the focus is on subject and object, and the one-to-one interaction between subject and object. There is a center point where the image of self/I resides, which is the ego. However, in the Eastern collectivistic perspective, the focus is on the context, the circumference, and the many-to-many interactions in foreground and background. The Chinese expression of “心,” (heart, soul, and mind) in early texts provides evidence for this perspective. In ancient times, the abstract concept of heart is represented by the image of “方寸/fa¯ngcùn,” which literally means square inches. The creation of circumference provides a sense of being grounded without locating the center point. This is consistent with Jung’s statement that “the Eastern mind, however, has no difficulty in conceiving of a consciousness without an ego.” Because of this core difference, we would propose that the process and product of symbol formation (in Jungian’s term, the “constellation”) should be different between Western psyche and Eastern psyche. The symbol formation process is the bridge between the archetype as such and archetype the image. Jolande Jacobi (1959) states that “archetype which has already become perceptible, or rather is ‘represented’ to the conscious mind and for the most part should be conceived as symbol” (p. 119). The archetype as such is “quiescent, a structural factor in the psychoid realm of the collective unconscious, and invisible nuclear element and potential carrier of meaning” (p. 119). Jacobi further recognizes the contribution of group constellation to the symbol formation process, and he states “the individual constellation depends on the individual’s state of consciousness, the collective constellation on the corresponding state of consciousness of human groups” (p. 119). In Jungian psychology, the most important archetype is the “Self.” Jung (1969), in his discussion of Self in Aion, states “experience shows that individual mandala are symbols of order, and they occur in patients principally during time of psychic disorientation or

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re-orientation” (pp. 31–31; par 60). Jung (1984) also commented on the image of mandala and stated that in Chinese philosophy, the mandala is the “square inch field of the square foot house” (p. 116), which we believe is referring to the image of “方寸/fa¯ngcùn” we mentioned previously. The symbols of order constellated by Self are in various forms, and one of the corresponding archetypal images of Self is the “house,” which is associated with the mother and the womb. The “house” creates a safe, enclosed feeling of being encircled, which is also the sense of security portrayed in attachment theories. My (the first author) interest in the house imago came from my research on mother–child separation and attachment representation. Before 1950, Taiwanese Hakka society carried out a common custom called “童養媳/ tóngyaˇngxí,” which means “adopted little daughter-in-law.” Following this custom, newborn girls were separated from their birth mothers and natal families when they were very young. Tóngyaˇngxí holds complex roles of being an “adopted child” and “daughter-in-law” at the same time. “She was part of the take-in family, brought in with the specific intention that she should marry one of its sons when she was old enough” (Hayes, 1994, p. 48). From the perspective of sense of agency, unlike a woman raised by her birth parents, Tóngyaˇngxí was deprived of a sense of her worth as a child when she was sent away by her birth parents. In both natal family and adoptive family, she was a property of the family. It is reasonable to assume that the experience of being powerless and the lack of an internal sense of security would have a negative impact on Tóngyaˇngxí and the second generation as well. In my research with the second generation of Tóngyaˇngxí, there was one pattern response caught my eye when I coded the Adult Attachment Projective Picture System (AAP) story plot made by my participants. I was aware that there was a high tendency from my participants to end the story with “回家/ huíjia¯” (back to house/home). In the coding system of AAP, the ending line generally will determine if the aroused segregation system could be resolved. Attention is being given to if there is representation of “internalized security,” “haven of safety,” and “capacity to act.” The ending action of “回家/ huíjia¯” (back to house) failed in resolving the danger/fear situation because based on the AAP coding criteria, the wording of “back” imply that there is no change and the subject is back to the original state. Therefore, the segregated system is not resolved. The attachment theories are rooted in the Western individualistic culture, where the security base and haven of safety are constellated in the image of an individual caregiver. However, in collective culture, an individual’s attachment is not fixed to one caregiver. When the caretaking is shared by various caregivers, which is generally observed in a collective culture, how does the individual psyche constellate the image of security base? Can we be open to the hypothesis that in a collective society, the security base is constellated in a collective image, which might be “a house”? Later in our clinical practice, through the artwork of patients, our assumption of the house imago in human psyche, especially for people who come from a collective culture was reinforced. When we first met Kyle, he was a 33 years old Tibetan Buddhist who suffered from psychotic symptoms. Kyle’s family was

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exiled from their homeland, and he immigrated to the US with his family at the age of 19. The onset of his psychotic symptoms was at the age of 24. Per records from the hospital, symptoms included: auditory hallucination, paranoia, disorganized behaviors and incoherent speech, internal preoccupation, and social isolation. Kyle’s language combines various languages and even the family has difficulty in understanding Kyle. Because of the language barrier, the art group was included in Kyle’s treatment plan, in which Kyle participated weekly. For about one year, Kyle’s artwork showed a repeated theme of house (Figure 13.1). The same style and content of drawing lasted for about 7 months, with variation of adding the second floor to the house and the exchanging of location of house and tree. We wonder if Kyle’s drawing of the house is a metaphor of evolving psyche which is facilitated by Kyle’s migrating experience. We know that Jung’s connection to house began at his house dream. Jung built his castle by the lake overtime as representation in stone of his own evolving psyche. Jung stated “from the beginning I felt the Tower as in some way a place of maturation – a maternal womb or a maternal figure in which I could become what I was, what I am and will be…. It is thus a constellation of the individuation process” (cited in Cooper, 1974, p. 140; Jung, 1989, p. 274). We wonder how similar is Jung’s building his castle to Kyle’s drawing of his house. We also wonder how the adding of a floor is related to the development of psyche in Kyle’s case. Does adding on floors represent psyche’s expanding and ego personality development?

Figure 13.1 Patient Artwork No. 1

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Kyle’s repeated drawings gave one a sense of creating a sanctuary in his psyche. The house became a point of reference to structure and understanding the world beyond and above him. The family and personal experience of migration creates internal and external disruptions. The house allowed him to manage the chaos of living in the US and orientated himself in the Western world. From a spiritual perspective, the house can also be a connection between the profane world and the sacred world. In Kyle’s drawings (Figure 13.2), one sees the opening space to the world above through the chimney. The opening to the upward ensures the communication with the world of the sacred. The drawing of the mountain is also an image of connection between the earth and heaven. The house is not just a space where we live, it is “the universe that man constructs for himself . . . in some measure equivalent to a new beginning, a new life” as Mircea Eliade (1957) mentioned (P. 57). Being exiled from his homeland, Kyle is in a land and a culture with which he is not familiar. We assume that the constellation of the house imago is to embody the longing for belonging/home. The need for home is deeply rooted in all of us. Home is a secure base from which we can take on a journey. For people who are “wanderers” as tóngyaˇngxí and Kyle, they carry their home/houses with them. For Kyle, the house he draws is connected to his first conscious thought of security and roots, which will ground and nurture him in facing the challenges in a new land. If only Kyle can find that place again, that tree/house by the river, and that mountain in the background, can he feel that he could be all of himself again, which is evidenced by his drawing of “me” in the pictures seven months later (Figure 13.3).

Figure 13.2 Patient Artwork No. 2

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Figure 13.3 Patient Artwork No. 3

After about 11 months in art group, Kyle’s drawing showed a change in color. He used only the color green in his drawing (Figure 13.4). Later, we learned that his father passed away during that time. Then, the dragon was added to his drawings. There was also smoke coming out of the chimney (Figure 13.5). It seemed that Kyle was processing grief from the loss of his father. However, the established “house” not only provided a sense of being grounded and stable in his life during the loss, there was also “human warmth” in support of his mourning process. The loss of father calls for a need for stability and grounding. Kyle also added phurbas in his drawings. Phurba is used in Buddhist rituals. In Sanskrit, phurba means nail, and it symbolizes stability. It is also a symbol for removing obstacles and transforming negative energies. After a period of adjustment to the loss, Kyle stopped drawing the image of “house,” and he started to draw Green Tara repeatedly in each art group session (Figure 13.6). Before he drew, he would draw an image of origami style “dragonfly” first, and then he would erase the image and draw Green Tara on top of the erased image. The two layers of drawing reminds one of the differences between collective consciousness and collective unconsciousness. Jacobi (1959) reminds that archetypes of the collective consciousness are “representatives of the typical norms, customs, and views prevailing in a particular environment” (p. 110). The Green Tara can be perceived as an archetype of the collective consciousness, which is handed down by the society and culture to which Kyle belongs. However, the “dragonfly” underneath it can

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Figure 13.4 Patient Artwork No. 4

Figure 13.5 Patient Artwork No. 5

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Figure 13.6 Patient Artwork No. 6

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be seen as an archetype of the collective unconsciousness, which Jacobi stated “[is] charged with magic and numinousness, leading a meaningful form to the dynamism of the instinctual foundation of man and represents the spontaneous manifestation of his authentic, essential nature” (p. 110). The dragonfly in most parts of the world symbolizes change. It undergoes metamorphosis during its life cycle, from the larval stage under water to the adult form of the dragonfly. Thus, the life of the dragonfly is spent in two realms, which symbolizes transformation and spiritual renewal. The dragonfly also has the ability to move in all six directions. This is a sense of power and flexibility which only comes with maturity. The loss of the father in Kyle’s life calls for the need for changes and adaptation. Kyle is called to live and experience himself differently and he needs to stay open to the enfoldment of his personal journey alone. This required the connection between the ego and the Self, the regulating function of psyche. If the dragonfly is an abstract form of a dragon, which is connected to his loss of his father, Kyle is combining the dragon with Green Tara, that is the father and the mother, which is also an image of union and wholeness. Once again, it serves as a regulating function for Kyle.

Conclusion Through Kyle’s drawing, one observes how the house imago helps Kyle create order in the external and internal chaos in his life. Having a dwelling space and/ or having a home is an essential part of being human. The Chinese mandala image of “square inch field of the square foot house” also showed that in order to connect to our internal home, one needs to draw boundaries. The drawing of the house is an attempt to draw boundaries, which separates the world into inside and outside. We develop the sense of “who we are” through the recognition and dialogue of what is inside and what is outside. We also develop a sense of security through the experiences of being embraced and enclosed in a familiar environment. How the “boundary,” “embracing,” and “enclosing” are experienced and expressed depends on the culture to which we belong. In the Western individualistic culture, the focus is on the searching for a center point. However, in the Eastern collectivistic culture, the focus is on the drawing of the circumference. Both the center and the circumference serve the regulating function of the psyche. From the case of Kyle, we learn that the constellation of the house imago is an attempt for reintegration, which brings the individual back to “方寸/ fa¯ngcùn,” the heart and the Self.

References Cooper, C. (1974). ‘The house as symbol of the self,’ in J. Jean et al. (eds.) The People, Place, and Space Reader, London: Routledge. Eliade, M. (1957). The Sacred and the Profane: The Natural of Religion, Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace & Company. Hayes, J. (1994). ‘San Po Tsi (Little daughter-in-law) and child betrothals in the new territories of Hong Kong from the 1890s to the 1960s,’ in M. Jaschok &

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S. Miers (eds.) Women and Chinese Patriarchy: Submission, Servitude, and Escape (pp. 45–76), Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Jacobi, J. (1959). ‘Symbol,’ in Complex, Archetype, Symbol in the Psychology of C.G. Jung (pp. 74–124), New York, NY: Patheon Books. Jung, C. G. (1954/1969). ‘Psychological commentary on The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation,’ in H. Read et al. (eds.) The Collected Works of C. G. Jung (Vol. 11, 2nd ed., pp. 475–508), Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1954/1969). ‘The self,’ in H. Read et al. (eds.) The Collected Works of C. G. Jung (Vol. 9/2, 2nd ed., pp. 23–35), Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1969). Symbols of Transformation: An Analysis to the Prelude to a Case of Schizophrenia, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1984). Dream Analysis: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1928–1930, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1989). Memories, Dreams, Reflections, New York, NY: Vintage.

14 From dragons to leaders Latvian and Japanese psyches, and an organic consciousness Evija Volfa Vestergaard

Introduction The subject of good leadership and leaders who may incite a greater human well-being is never unimportant and is especially urgent in times of crisis, like the current corona virus pandemic. Coupled with the aim to contribute to a better understanding of the similarities and differences between the psyches of the East and West, this chapter explores leadership styles in Japan (East Asia) and Latvia (which is on the boundary between East and West) as an important element in creating a sustainable future for humanity. This exploration begins by reading early mythological narratives about dragons, following the assertion of Carl Jung (1948/1969), who discerned that “in myths as fairytales, as in dreams, the psyche tells its own story” (p. 217). Hayao Kawai (1976) and Megumi Yama’s (2013, 2018) insights into Japanese mythology, history, culture, psychology and leadership styles not only elucidate the workings of the psyche of the East but also serve as a valuable input for building a budding awareness about the Latvian leadership approaches. I suggest that, in general, both the Japanese and Latvian psyches are characterized by a greater permeability between their conscious and unconscious layers, expressed in a heightened sense of embeddedness with their surroundings and the multiplicity of perspectives held by their leaders. Using the language of myths, these leaders find ways to dance with the dragons rather than slaying them. They form a relationship with the surrounding natural environment and human-made worlds rather than striving to separate and cut away one from the other. While, from a Western perspective, this permeability may be viewed as lacking a healthy ego, I argue that a sense of interconnectedness is beneficial in a world of expanding global interdependencies. Instead of placing the consciousnesses of East and West in opposition, we have an opportunity to reimagine the maturation of consciousness as an organic process toward a state of individual well-being, not at the cost of others but as a mutually beneficial endeavor. In my view, such consciousness is organic and follows the evolution of complex adaptive systems as described by Stewart Kauffman (2003) and the emergence of an ecological mind, as argued by Joe Cambray (2017). The leadership we need in both East and West, I suggest, will evolve a consciousness that dances with dragons in

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ways that do not fear the unknown but rather expand what is known by bringing about a commons of well-being in a sustainable world.

Dragons dancing with the shadows In Japan, the mythical dragon, having originated from the traditions of Chinese Buddhism, Taoism, and adopted by Japanese indigenous Shintoism, played a significant role in both the royal affairs and in the everyday life of people. Significantly, there is a beneficial quality associated with these creatures, even if some are malevolent. A researcher of dragon symbolism in Asia, Ngoc Tho Nguyen (2015), wrote: In Japanese society, dragon presents in both sides of royal culture and folk culture. . . . Ryu ¯jin/龍神 is the father of the beautiful goddess Otohime who married the hunter prince Hoori. Otohime and Hoori gave the birth to the first Emperor of Japan, Jimmu. Therefore, Ryu ¯jin is said to be one of the ancestors of the Japanese imperial dynasty. Accordingly, Ryu ¯jin shinko¯ (dragon god faith) is a form of Shinto religious belief that worships water gods: dragons. It is surely attached with agricultural rituals, rain prayers, and the general success of fisherman. (p. 66) These supernatural messengers brought extra-human powers and protected human activities. While in today’s Japan some dragon symbolism is associated with street gangs, a benevolent quality remains. Intriguingly, Latvian dragons in their appearance and habits are similar to those found in Japanese Shinto beliefs and agricultural rituals. Like the long-bodied, snake-shaped Japanese ryu¯, the Latvian pu¯k¸ is brought riches and wisdom to humans. With no royalty to protect, Latvian dragons dwelled on the roof of people’s barns and assisted their keepers in securing sustenance and wealth. Stories tell that some dragons appeared as big black snakes. They guarded buttermilk buckets, grain, and cattle and often lived in the hay loft. When they swooped out through a chink in the roof, they appeared as long blue stripes. Upon their return, they were red and much fatter plump with the riches they brought to their keepers. In Western mythology, dragons when on their best behavior guard riches in caves or at the end of rainbows. Most usually, however, these creatures are devastating human lives. A Roman legend tells about the heroic feat of St. Sylvester who overpowered the dragon of the Tarpeian Hill. In a dream, an angel instructed St. Sylvester to chain the beast, which he did. Jung (1956) retells the legend and its heroic ending: “and he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil and Satan, and bound him a thousand years, cast him into a bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him” (p. 366). Mythology is said to be an early form of psychology. According to the Jungian perspective, as Susan Rowland articulates, “a written text may be treated

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as evidence of psychological processes” (Rowland, 2019). We may discern and interpret psychological processes found in cultural narratives. It is not surprising then that the flight paths of mythological dragons follow the contours of mountains, valleys, and shorelines of different topologies, as well as the differing historically engraved outlines of the psyche. In traditional Jungian psychology, founded largely on Western, particularly Greco-Roman, narratives, dragons symbolize the devouring mother complex or one’s desire to stay in the comforts of maternal caretaking and pleasurable instincts. In Jung’s (1956) words, the dragon is “a man with merely human thoughts and desires, who is ever striving back to childhood and the mother” (p. 367). Opposing such a dragon is the hero who slays it, meaning, integrates the dragon within himself, establishing a relationship with his instinctual nature, dominating it with rational knowledge. In the East, however, the natural world is seen as a phenomenon governed by the balance between yin (feminine) and yang (masculine) energies, and humans are participants in this balance. Perhaps this fundamentally different experience was affecting the psyche that conceived dragons as both good and evil and imagined a necessary and potentially beneficial relationship with the creatures. In their benevolent expressions, dragons became the symbol of good luck and mysterious powers to benefit human well-being. Following the intriguing mythological flight paths of the Japanese and Latvian dragons, I will now explore a deeper discernment of the relationships formed by the psyche of these two cultures with the known external world, the natural world, and the unconscious. Akita Iwao (2017) describes the Japanese way of relating with the unconscious as dancing with the shadows rather than “integrating the shadow into the ego” (p. 7). In this type of consciousness there is a greater fluidity between the unconscious and the conscious aspects of the psyche, and also between the ego experiences of an individual and the sense of wholeness with others and their surroundings. In 1976, Hayao Kawai recognized and explained a much vaguer boundary when he wrote about the two models of consciousness: Japanese and Western. In his view, the center of Japanese consciousness was not Ego, as in the West, but rather Self – the place of balance between the conscious and unconscious psyche. Megumi Yama (2018) expanded on what we know about the preferences of such a fluidly permeable psyche – its contentment with multiple perspectives. In traditional Japanese art, such a perspective can be found in depictions of city-life as if captured from a moving bird’s eye view rather than from a discrete position within or outside the canvas. There are no shadows to be seen, as that would mean a fixed spectator. Each scene invites us to enter it, to relate, to play out its reality, to find a way to adjust to new situations, and evolve as we move along. In traditional Japanese homes, the multifunctionality of rooms, the lack of solid walls between them and between the inside and outside spaces, show the preference for plurality. Also, Japanese gardens honor nonlinearity by scattering surprising elements that appear as spectators wander through. No garden’s totality can

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be viewed from a set point on the ground or through a window of an adjacent building, as in European palace gardens. The characteristic ease of human transformations into animals, and vice versa, found in Japanese folktales and modern animations is an example of the permeability of the psyche’s boundaries. In Latvia, a beneficial kinship with dragons reflects the traditional agrarian sense of dependence on the natural world and rewards in return for caretaking. Dainas (Latvian mythological verses) undoubtedly depict this relationship. Nature has no linearity or an inherent good or bad associated with it. It may be rewarding to one who respects it and knows how to care for its riches. For centuries, Latvians lived with the rhythms of seasons, working the land and fishing, embracing nature’s unpredictability. This fluidity also manifests as the lack of hierarchies between the Latvian feminine sun goddess saule, the masculine moon god me¯ness, god dievin¸ š (the diminutive form of dievs (god)), and humans. The sense of mutuality and of an ongoing dance to be maintained appear to extend from relations with the unpredictable natural world to other encounters humans must navigate.

The “becoming” ego In Western cultures where an individual is raised to be in control of the environment, the ego perspective is that of an independent subject observing objects. In Japan, and arguably somewhat similarly in Latvia, it is more typical to form a subjective experience as embedded in natural and societal environments where the ego is, as Yama (2018) asserts, “becoming” – continuously emerging in adaptation to the surroundings. Somewhat critically, though, Kawai (1995) wrote: “The Japanese finds ‘I’ solely through the existence of others . . . the Japanese are so passive as to accept everything that comes their way and that they have no autonomy” (p. 26). The criticism stems from perceiving the embeddedness of an individual as participation mystique (the term first introduced by Lévy-Brühl and later adapted by Carl Jung). It meant diminishing ego identity associated with the blurring between the observer and the observed. It is worth noting, however, that global crises (like pandemics or climate change) raise questions about the maturity of humans behaving as independent subjects rather than participants in a greater whole. Both Japanese and Latvian languages, I suggest, reflect the blurred identities and the experiences of ego becoming. According to Kawai (1995), Japanese notions of ego, Self, Nature – jiga, jiko, and jinen are all linked to one element expressed in the common character, ji. Ji represents the phenomena of existing both spontaneously and also voluntarily of its own will at the same time. “Everything in the cosmos flows as it is,” wrote Kawai (p. 30). In the Latvian language, the notions of esamı¯ba, esošais, esı¯ba, and es (wholeness, all that exists – both natural and human-made – Self, and ego/I, respectively) have the common element es. These notions are intertwined. Yama (2013) explains that the perspective of the psyche that is based on everything being interconnected often makes it impossible to even begin to articulate

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it. Subjective views may, thus, be largely left unexpressed. It is not, however, because nothing is happening but rather because a lot is going on. There are many intricate layers of what is present, and there are countless possibilities. Context becomes paramount. Reading between the lines is an essential skill of Japanese leaders. I find a similar competence valued by Latvians.

Leadership styles Jung (1962/1989) wrote: “How . . . can we become conscious of national peculiarities if we have never had the opportunity to regard our own nation from outside? Regarding it from outside means regarding it from the standpoint of another nation” (p. 246). I am grateful to the Japanese psychologists for their explorations into Japanese mythology, psychology, and leadership styles, as such work in Latvia is just emerging. My ability to regard my native Latvian culture and psychological processes from outside comes from my personal history of living and working in Eastern and Western Europe, South Africa, and the United States for over 25 years. Yama (2013) draws an image of today’s Japanese leaders as well-versed in Westerners’ linear thinking, which they practice to keep their country a top player in the fast-moving technological world. At the same time she showed how traditions affected these leaders. Deeply rooted in the psyche’s preference for porousness between the conscious and the unconscious, the tradition of non-fixed multiple perspective-taking, and the continuous movement of egoemerging, Japanese leaders practice the art of an invisible action. To an outsider this may appear as doing nothing. But this apparent nothing is in fact doing everything necessary to maintain the right balance among everyone and everything involved. Such a leader is not the one calling the shots and directing others around. He (still mostly a male) is responsible for perceiving “thousands of unuttered voices, unexpressed emotions” (p. 62) in addition to making reasonbased decisions. This quality of a true leader in Japan is said to resemble the Wise Old Man. Wise balancing is not an easy task. In the context of the recent pandemic, what may have been the maintenance of harmony by the Japanese PM was criticized as koto nagare shugi.1 A Japanese friend who lives in the United States explained. “It means no fighting, no conflict. Trying to pretend not to see or hear anything, turning a blind eye. . . . The Americans definitely don’t have this characteristic.” Pointing out a problem is something to avoid in Japan. Hence, the Japanese government was more prepared to hush the issue of Covid-19 than to discuss it, leading to a greater spread of the virus. The fear of interrupting the upcoming Olympic games and carrying the cost of the economic impact of $36 billion may have been the key reason. Such withholding of truth for economic reasons is a common practice in many countries. More unique to Japan, though, was the continued discussion of an emergency bill for weeks after the outbreak and the prime minister’s role as only an adviser to the government. Nevertheless, the culturally peculiar arrangement in Japan, in which an individual is buried in the collective to avoid being conspicuous, and where leaders

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must do everything to maintain social harmony, in my view contributes to a trustworthy leadership (even if far from perfect) and is a beneficial social arrangement. Arguably, an individual’s experience is characterized not only as someone buried by others but also as someone participating in a mutual caretaking system. The system begins with one’s family, extends to the company for which one works, and to the nation’s government. It is undeniable that this particular interdependent culture with its Wise Old Man leadership style can pride itself as one of the best functioning and technologically advanced societies with a top life expectancy in the world. It does not mean, however, that the interdependence does not come at the cost of valuable individuality or that the Wise Old Man is the ultimate leader to which human society may aspire. Today’s Latvian leaders, like their Japanese counterparts, exercise direct and linear thinking that is dominant in the West. Since regaining its independence from Russian occupation at the beginning of the 1990s, Latvian government and many businesses leaders have emphasized the country’s alignment with the Western democratic system and the principles of a market economy. At the same time, like in Japan, maintaining harmony is important in Latvia. In an interview with Iveta Dze¯rve,2 the founder of a public relations company and publisher of a leadership magazine in Latvia, I learned about a trend among the country’s leaders to avoid voicing opinions for the sake of staying outside the public eye and jeopardizing collaborative relationships. In a recent survey3 on preferences for leadership characteristics in Latvia, a quarter of respondents said that they wanted leaders who could move the country forward while accounting for the interests of all people. Only 9% desired a leader with a charismatic personality. The leader had to be someone who “doesn’t want the spotlight on himself.” (In Latvian, the masculine gender is used in reference to a group consisting of both genders.) Although 14% of the respondents said that Latvia needed “a personality that is not afraid to make unpopular decisions,” this is a small percentage. Ultimately, leaders had to be “capable of taking responsibility.” Among the key qualities they had to possess was creativity and natural ability to inspire others. Most Latvians, not dissimilar to Japanese, seem to be waiting passively for leaders to show up and lead. As Dze¯rve put it: “Latvians wait to hear what the father will say and only then take action.” Interestingly, however, while awaiting the arrival of such leaders, Latvians practice their traditional individual creativity for the sake of their families and communities. The long history of occupation has taught the people that their families and close communities of friends are the truly reliable and trustworthy networks in times of need, and nature provides the basis for their lives. In my view, Richard Lewis (2006) writing about leadership styles made an erroneous assumption about Latvians. He asserted that all Latvians are individualists who want to be managers. I argue that Latvian creativity may be misperceived as a drive to lead. Lewis’s observation lacks full understanding of the nation’s history and psyche. I suggest, it is not a wish to manage in the Western sense but rather a manifestation of individual creativity in solution-finding acquired through the peoples’ historical plight for survival.

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In earlier centuries this creativity meant sustainable caretaking of the lands and nation-building through the arts and music. In today’s Latvia, new leaders are urged to be gardeners of their businesses and organizations. One of the more visible business champions, Uldis Pı¯le¯ns (2018) incites Latvians to grow their companies together with people as a garden to sustain the nation. This perspective of interconnected growth will need to find a balance with hierarchical Western leadership practices. In response to the pandemic, the Latvian Cabinet of Ministers followed the example of many Western European governments by closing borders and shutting down most business and social activities. People accepted the situation, but not without negativity. Neither the government nor business leaders of Latvia have yet accumulated the needed confidence. The trust deficit is staggering, having amassed through centuries of foreign rule, when those in charge cared little about the Latvian nation. Even worse, beginning in the 1990s with the country’s independence, several leaders accumulated personal wealth through corruption. Thus, the experience of an individual in Latvia is of being embedded in a system the trustworthiness of which extends only to the closest circle of one’s family and community. Unfortunately, the sense of overwhelming oneness with the forces of nature when viruses rage is unhelpful. Equally harmful is the fear that the leaders may not consider everyone’s well-being.

Organic consciousness At the time of writing this chapter, the jury is still out on how different leadership styles unfold in the current crisis. We are yet to see who fares the best – which leaders and which constituents. We are in the midst of a great, even if terrifying, experiment to learn what system of governance can best bring about a balance of human and planetary well-being. It is not too early, though, to expand Jungian ideas beyond comparing leadership styles and the movement of consciousness that differs in East and West. This may be the time to reimagine maturation of the consciousness of leaders and individuals alike. I see it as the process of evolving toward the next possible state of increased well-being shared with others in a sustainable world. The expansion of Jungian psychology must involve conceiving individual maturation not only as a deep exploration into the interiority of the psyche but also as an organic expansion of awareness about the external world beyond cultural and national boundaries. Jung (1959) defined ego as “the complex factor to which all conscious contents are related, . . . [as] the subject of all personal acts of consciousness” (p. 3). An individual ego may, thus, be understood as the aspect of the personality that contains the known contents – all that the individual is aware of either about his/her external surroundings or the psyche’s inner realities. The unknown territory of the inner world, Jung called the unconscious. He did not provide a term for the unknown of the external world which he also left largely undiscussed. Following its creator’s inclinations, Jungian psychology was originally primarily concerned

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with making the unconscious elements of our psyche known to ourselves. Along with many post-Jungians, the most well-known being James Hillman (1999) and Andrew Samuels (1993), my view is that we need to expand our awareness not only about our own psyche but about the world we live in, its politics, cultures, and histories. The expansion is necessary if we are to support individuation (development of an individual) in its wholeness rather than privileging any kind of one-sidedness in the processes of maturation. Equipped with knowledge unavailable in Jung’s time, we know that human beings and their societies are complex adaptive systems that evolve toward an adjacently possible – a new maturational state and a potential future available to us. The term adjacently possible was devised by Stuart Kauffman (2003), an American medical doctor and theoretical biologist who argued that evolution happens through continuously arising biological functions, the variables of which are not predictable. Joseph Cambray (2017) applied this notion to the psychological development of individuals. He proposed the human psyche as consisting of hubs (the most frequented archetypes or identities) and nodes (the less frequented). Reaching the adjacent possible maturational states involved explorations of the less activated nodes (identities). In such a way, the maturation of an individual followed the path from the known to the unknown – into the “‘shadow’ region of the dynamic unconscious” (p. 52). We must add that this evolution equally involves venturing into the unknowable possibilities of the dynamic external natural and humanmade worlds we inhabit. Thus, the maturation of organic consciousness may be envisioned as a movement toward the adjacently possible – from known to unknown states of awareness and identities active in both the interior of the psyche and the external world of expressions. While the process may bring about unpredictability, along with many and varied new states, the desired path of individual development, I surmise, is a state in which there is a common and shared well-being of individuals living in a sustainable world. I imagine a field of potential futures available to us. In it, individuals and leaders from the interdependent (or embedded) cultures on one side of the field may move toward the potential future states of more independent (or separated) cultures on the other side, and vice versa. Those with the most trust in the natural world may mature by evolving toward trusting more in the humanmade world, and the other way around. A good outcome of this organic evolution may be the meeting in the middle ground of harmony – greater health and peace. If I were to locate Japan on this imaginary field, I would see the Japanese hubs close to the edge of interdependence with their surroundings and the confidence in the human-made world of rules and technologies (see Figure 14.1). The identities in the distant other part of the field would be foreign to Japanese consciousness. Nevertheless, exactly the unexplored nodes of identities associated with heightened individuality, particularly those more accessible, hold the adjacently possible futures.

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Figure 14.1 Maturation of organic consciousness

The Latvian hubs, too, I see in the field of interconnectedness; however, more with the natural world. Supported by the values and practices of the European Union, Latvians are slowly growing trust in human structures; for example, a reliable government and trustworthy alliances. With the new knowing about the external world of possibilities and their associated inner experiences, the Latvian psyche is inching toward the middle ground of the sense of wellness. For purposes of comparison, I place the American hubs in the far field of the independence/separateness. Maturation and growing consciousness for Americans will mean extending linkages and practicing the nodes of interconnectedness and balance between the human-made and natural world. Whether we want it or not, the pandemic is teaching us a great deal about how interconnected we are with nature and each other and how the creativity of mature individuals can save lives. Time will show which leaders fare best, judging by the well-being of their people and economies. Without doubt, all of us, if we want to pursue sustainable life systems, will have to expand what we know about the world we inhabit and into what identities we want to evolve. We may not need to revive benevolent mythological dragons to find in ourselves the supernatural powers to hold up the structures of our homes or to fill our chests with grain. It is worthwhile, though, to awaken the mythical snakebirds as the symbols of auspicious relationships we must form with the inner and outer unknowns.

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For such kinships, if properly nurtured, supply our metaphorical coffers with the wisdom so valuable for leadership capable of effecting sustainable well-being.

Notes 1 Source: https://edition.cnn.com/videos/world/2020/03/10/japan-coronaviruscovid-19-no-problemism-hokkaido-snow-festival-intl-hnk-vpx.cnn 2 Personal communications with Dze¯rve, I. 2019, September 24. 3 Survey: https://repute.lv/en/survey_leader-2/

References Akita, I. (2017). A Japanese Jungian Perspective on Mental Health and Culture: Wandering Madness (W. Shibata, & K. Stephenson, Trans.). New York, NY: Taylor and Francis. Cambray, J. (2017). The Emergence of the Ecological Mind in Hua-Yen/Kegon Buddhism and Jungian Psychology. Journal of Analytical Psychology, 62(1), 20–31. Retrieved from http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/1468-5922.12277/ full Hillman, J. (1999). The Force of Character: And the Lasting Life. New York, NY: Ballantine Books. Jung, C. G. (1956). Symbols of transformation. The collected works of C. G. Jung (H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler, W. McGuire, Eds., & R. Hull, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1959). Aion. Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self (Vol. 9) (H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler, W. McGuire, Eds., & R. Hull, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1969). The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales. In M. F. H. Read (Ed.), The Collected Works of C. G. Jung (R. F. Hull, Trans., Vol. 9i, pp. 207–254). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (Original work published 1948). Jung, C. G. (1989). Memories, Dreams, Reflections (A. Jaffe, Ed., C. Winston & R. Winston, Trans.). New York, NY: Vintage Books. (Original work published 1962). Kauffman, S. (2003). The Adjacent Possible. Retrieved October 20, 2017, from Edge. org: www.edge.org/conversation/stuart_a_kauffman-the-adjacent-possible Kawai, H. (1976). Boseishakai Nihon no Byori (Pathology of Japan as a Society of Maternity). Tokyo, Japan: Chuokoron-sha. Kawai, H. (1995). Dreams, Myths and Fairy Tales in Japan. Einsiedeln, Switzerland: Daimon. Lewis, R. (2006). When Cultures Collide: Leading Across Culture. Boston, MA: Nicholas Brealey Publishing. Nguyen, N. (2015). The Symbols of the Dragon and Ways to Shape Cultural Identities in Vietnam and Japan. Retrieved from Harvard-Yenching Institute Working Papers Series: https://harvard-yenching.org/sites/harvard-yenching.org/files/ featurefiles/Nguyen%20Ngoc%20Tho_The%20Symbol%20of%20the%20Dragon% 20and%20Ways%20to%20Shape%20Cultural%20Identities%20in%20Vietnam%20 and%20Japan.pdf Pı¯le¯ns, U. (2018). Uldis Pı¯le¯ns – “Vadı¯ta¯js starp riskiem un atbildı¯bu” (“Leader between Risks and Responsibilities”). Retrieved October 7, 2019, from YouTube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9Hn6r-kWXU

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Rowland, S. (2019). Jungian Literary Criticism. The Essential Guide [Kindle]. New York, NY: Routledge. Samuels, A. (1993). The Political Psyche. New York, NY: Routledge. Yama, M. (2013). Ego Consciousness in the Japanese Psyche: Culture, Myth and Disaster. Journal of Analytical Psychology, 58, 52–72. Yama, M. (2018). Non-fixed Multiple Perspectives in the Japanese Psyche: Traditional Japanese Art, Dream and Myth. In I. Blocian, & A. Kuzmicki (Eds.), Contemporary Influences of C. G. Jung’s Thought (pp. 193–215). Boston, MA: Leiden.

15 Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures Psychological inner movement in Western and Eastern culture Tsuyoshi Inomata 1. Introduction In his letter to Herbert Read in 1960, Jung outlined his “Weltanschauung” of modernity. It may seem terribly pessimistic at first glance, but it is a consistent and honest analysis of our time. The great problem of our time is that we don’t understand what is happening to the world. We are confronted with the darkness of our soul, the unconscious. It sends up its dark and unrecognizable urges. It hollows out and hacks up the shapes of our culture and its historical dominants. We have no dominants any more, they are in the future. Our values are shifting, everything loses its certainty, even sanctissima causalitas has descended from the throne of the axioma and has become a mere field of probability. Who is the awe-inspiring guest who knocks at our door portentously? Fear precedes him, showing that ultimate values already flow towards him. Our hitherto believed values decay accordingly and our only certainly is that the new world will be something different from what we were used to. (Jung 1976, p. 590, to Read, 2 September 1960) In our modernity “everything loses its certainty,” and “our only certainly is that the new world will be something different from what we were used to.” There is no longer any certainty in our time, he asserts. There was a time in the past when God was at the center of the world. In those days, God was the light and the truth, our stronghold. Or, in even earlier times, there was an animistic world in which the world was one with nature, where people, animals, and nature were all alive and animated. In other words, there was a time in the past when God or nature were at the center of the world, therefore we thought of them as a certainty and we were able to live with them. But today, nothing is certain at the center of the world; the only certainty, as Jung says, is that it is uncertain.

2. Emptiness in Western culture: nihilism This condition is called nihilism in the Western culture. The center of the world is empty, and this nothingness means a loss of orientation for human

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beings. In the West, this state of affairs has already been going on for centuries. For example, when Christianity appeared, it required the radical overcoming of traditional pagan folk religions. The nature gods were abandoned and were made obsolete. Christianity rejected such gods which used to animate the natural world as illusions, as false. Later, in the sixteenth century the Reformation consolidated the process. Up to the fifteenth century, people had been in a church-centered community, and if they were troubled by psychic matters, that community would solve such troubles for them. As Jung reiterated in several seminars, he introduces us to a university professor who is still in a pre-Reformation state. The medical professor said to Jung, “Why do you worry about psychology? What is it after all? We don’t worry about such things.” I [Jung] said, “How do you do it – surely certain problems arise?” He said, No, there are none. If anything questionable arises I simply ask my father confessor, and he tells me. If he doesn’t know he asks the bishop; and if he doesn’t know, he writes to the College of Cardinals at Rome, where the records go back for two thousand years. These questions have all been perfectly answered long ago. (Jung, 2019, p. 126) All the problems have already been solved; people just need to check with the church for answers. This was the typical attitude of those who lived before the Reformation. But, after the Reformation each person’s religion was no longer determined by the particular Church into which she or he had been born. Then they could choose their faith according to their own inner needs, personal feelings, and convictions. In other words, as soon as people gained individual freedom, they lost their communal defenses and began to suffer individually. And they lost the God and the center that carried the truth to solve their problems. This state of affairs was furthered by the French Revolution and the Enlightenment, which completed the movement to nihilism. The Enlightenment radically critiqued and decomposed not only the power of the Church as an institution but also the substance of the Christian doctrine. The Church was dethroned as the highest spiritual authority. As Jung also pointed out, it was Human Reason that took the throne, but the Reason was human consciousness itself, which had no spiritual content, and it saw its own mirror image in the place where it had previously seen the image of God. Thus, nihilism in Western society was complete, nothing was certain, and the center of this world became empty. Wolfgang Giegerich explains this phenomenon as an achievement of modern “emptiness consciousness.” Paradoxically, it is the Western way of the soul that – with its process of consecutive negations finally leading to what has been crudely and summarily condensed in the term “nihilism”’ – in fact produced an “emptiness consciousness,” an “emptiness consciousness” as a real (i.e., inescapable)

Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures 163 condition of the subject in real social reality and an objectively prevailing cultural mindset. (Giegerich, 2018, p. 49) It could be argued that this is a normal development in the world. Particularly in the alchemical thinking on which Jungian psychology is based, the following adage is also considered to be a model for psychotherapy: “As the alchemist Democritus says: ‘Nature rejoices in nature, nature subdues nature, nature rules over nature’. There are natural transformation processes which simply happen to us, whether we like it or not, and whether we know it or not” (Jung, 1939-I, §234). Rearranging this, Giegerich presents it as the next three stages of development. The soul undergoes these three stages. Our frst stage is characterized by primordial oneness and harmony with itself. It is called alchemically the “unio naturalis.” Then the next stage is that in which self-denial occurs and the initial unity is destroyed. It is a sort of self-negation and self-overcoming. Nature works against itself. It is called alchemically the “opus contra naturam.” The third stage is the result of this process of self-negation. It’s a new harmonious oneness with oneself on a higher level. Alchemically called the “mysterium coniunctionis.” From this psychological alchemical perspective, the process of moving toward nihilism is a kind of repetition of self-negation, a process in which each of us denies and overcomes what we have been trusting, and so we are forced to go through a stage in which nothing is certain at once. However, when viewed in this way, the process of negation that leads to this nihilism can be thought of as a psychotherapeutic process of denying and overcoming one’s existing way of being. In this sense, we might think that Jung is offering a psychological proposal to overcome this nihilism. In particular, those who emphasize the spiritual and nature-worshipping aspects of Jungian psychology would seek to set the mysterium coniunctionis and the Self as our new belief. Generally speaking, Jungian psychology has been considered to be one way of dealing with this nihilism. But Jung himself made the following statement: You see, man is in need of a symbolic life – badly in need. We only live banal, ordinary, rational, or irrational things – which are naturally also within the scope of rationalism, otherwise you could not call them irrational. But we have no symbolic life. Where do we live symbolically? Nowhere, except where we participate in the ritual of life. But who, among the many, are really participating in the ritual of life? Very few. And when you look at the ritual life of the Protestant Church, it is almost nil. Even the Holy Communion has been rationalized. I say that from the Swiss point of view: in the Swiss Zwinglian Church the Holy Communion is not a communion at all; it is a meal of memory. There is no Mass either; there is no confession; there is no ritual, symbolic life. (Jung, 1939-II, §625) In other words, even if we get past our self-negation, we can no longer participate in real rituals, be spiritually supported, nor hope to have a symbolic life.

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Jungian psychology is not an effort to reclaim the rich animated world of the past. Nor is it an attempt to create an internal space in the mind to reclaim the rich animated world as an internal reality. Jung is explicitly stating that there is no symbolic life. So why does Jungian psychology still propose a psychotherapy that passes from the unio naturalis through the opus contra naturam and finally leading to the mysterium coniunctionis? The process of these three stages is not something that, in modern times, achieves an end. The so-called initiation, for example, was an act of attaining adult status after completing these three stages, a ritual through which one was welcomed into the community. However, initiation is no longer a one-time ritual in the modern world. This is because the shamanistic world of initiation has been lost, and there is no longer any spirituality or community to underpin it. Likewise, these three psychological stages do not end with a onetime achievement. In the first place, psychotherapy arose in the modern era because there is no mystical reality on which to base the world. In other words, the reason why Jung advocates this three-stages process as psychotherapy is not because one comes to a mysterium coniunctionis and the fullness of life if one goes through this process, but because the process itself, in which one repeats this process of self-negation, reveals the center of the emptiness that has been left behind; in this process Jung finds meaning. For example, the young Jung, who had just turned 50 years old and had not yet embarked on a serious study of alchemy, spoke of assimilation with the soul of his ancestors as one paradox. If we became aware of the ancestral lives in us, we might disintegrate. An ancestor might take possession of us and ride us to death. The primitive says, “Don’t let a ghost get into you.” By this he conveys the double idea, “Don’t let a visitor get into your unconscious, and don’t lose an ancestral soul.” (Jung, 2011, p. 139) In this way, Jung speaks of a paradox about welcoming the souls of the past. Reclaiming and embracing the spiritual worldview of the past leads to a split in the mind of those who live in the present, and then one cannot live in the present. On the other hand, if one dismisses the past as if it did not exist, one cannot live in the present without its own past. What is necessary to live in the present age without abandoning the past, without reclaiming the past, while knowing the past? What will it take to overcome the nihilism that Western societies have had as an inevitable consequence of their history since the twentieth century? The idea that emerges is an attempt to find a way to overcome this nihilism using Eastern thought. Indeed, the East has another way of relating to emptiness. In the next chapter, I will look at this Eastern, and especially Japanese, engagement with emptiness. But does it really contribute to the overcoming of nihilism?

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3. Emptiness as Japanese cultural structure Comparing the myths of the East and the West, Hayao Kawai describes the empty centrality of the Japanese psyche in the following way. All the gods move and even fight one another around the hollow center. The most important thing is how well they are balanced, not victory and acquisition of center power. This is the cosmology of the ancient Japanese and stands in distinct contrast to the structure of Christian mythology. In Christianity, a single God who is the mightiest and always right stands in the center and rules the universe. The distinction between good and evil is extremely clear-cut in contrast to the amorphous nature of Japanese mythology. . . . in the Japanese hollow center balanced structure, even contradictory elements can co-exist so long as they can maintain a balance amongst themselves. In Christianity, the center has the power to integrate all elements whereas in Japanese mythology the center has no power. (Kawai, 1995, p. 87) Kawai depicts here an empty center as the mental characteristic of Japan, which he describes as being a balancing act that can hold contradictions. In other words, he says that the emptiness of the center is a vessel that allows for diversity. Furthermore, Kawai considers that this emptiness is not a given in the beginning but rather something that has taken shape in Japanese spiritual history. He believes that this emptiness is an intrinsic characteristic of Japanese Buddhism and that it creates a spirituality that is capable of embracing diversity, which in turn makes it an effective mental attitude in psychotherapy. Buddhism has refined its way of consciousness in a different direction. It has moved in the direction of negating the use of consciousness for discrimination between things. In an image, I might say “gradually lowering” the level of consciousness or gradually annihilating discrimination. When you lower it to an extreme degree – that is, when consciousness becomes emptied – the world manifested is that presented in the Garland Sutra. (Kawai, 1996, p. 104) In addition, Kawai believes that this mental attitude can be effective in psychotherapy. It is as if the analyst becomes like a natural object embodying the emptiness, as if he or she exists in the analytical praxis. In a psychotherapy session, quite often I feel myself sitting as a stone or a patient or a Kannon, rather than as a “therapist,” and I think it has a better result. So I easily becomes this or that (Ibid, p. 98)

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Tsuyoshi Inomata Frankly, when I meet those Jungian analysts who “analyze” and “interpret” everything, I feel like saying to them, “Everything is Emptiness,” although I really don’t comprehend what that statement means (Ibid, p. 106) I do have a great deal of confidence in being vague. (Ibid, p. 35)

Indeed, if the center is empty and can welcome a diversity of things into it, it may present new possibilities for those suffering from neurosis and mental illness to change their current way of being. This idea of an empty center as a therapeutic element is not a peculiarity of Japan. Like Kawai, Jung experienced in his childhood that “Am I the one who is sitting on the stone, or am I the stone on which he is sitting?” (Jung, 1963, p. 20). He also sees the realm of ambiguous existence as an effective realm for empathy to emerge. Thus, for example, Jung says the following. But one must learn to know oneself in order to know who one is. For what comes after the door is, surprisingly enough, a boundless expanse full of unprecedented uncertainty, with apparently no inside and no outside, no above and no below, no here and no there, no mine and no thine, no good and no bad. It is the world of water, where all life floats in suspension; where the realm of the sympathetic [nervous] system, the soul of everything living, begins; where I am indivisibly this and that; where I experience the other in myself and the other-than-myself experiences me. (Jung, 1934, §45) Thus, emptiness can also be a precondition for the creation of a rich animated world in which diversity is tolerated, if attitudes toward it change from pessimistic and rejective to empathic and receptive. It can also be an effective attitude in psychotherapy. Moreover, this attitude toward emptiness has allowed Japanese culture to develop, as it is commonly believed, by being able to accept new ideas and new technologies from other countries without rejection. In Western society, acceptance of the new is usually accompanied by a sense of confict and guilt, because acceptance of the new leads to the elimination of the old. In Japan, however, because the center is an empty structure, no matter what enters the center, there is no confict and the new can be absorbed effciently. It could be said that Japanese culture allows us to play with the diverse world like a child. In addition to this, if you look at the religious aspect, emptiness is Buddhist enlightenment. The empty space of enlightenment is a state of emptied consciousness, and with the emptiness it can be the world in which everything is manifested. However, the emptiness at the center is also fraught with major problems. The problems of this Japanese emptiness are numerous. First of all, the emptiness of the center means that in Japan, there is no subject with its own will and freedom. In the case of the West, the ego and subjectivity were established through the

Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures 167 history of the exclusion of God, who was at the center, and the human subject was placed at the center. Although this resulted in nihilism, Western society dared to acquire an empty self in the midst of its own philosophical transition. However, the emptiness that Japan possesses is probably something indigenous to Japan, which has persisted since ancient times. It is, one might say, an empty receptivity that the minorities on the small islands have inherited in order to survive. In a private seminar, Giegerich once compared the emptiness at the center of Japan to the Arctic vortex, a force of nature that swallows everything (Remarks at a private seminar in Berlin, March 2019). It is an all-consuming force of nature, and when it is swirling at the center of the vortex, man has no choice but to be swallowed up by it and live with it. In such a society, the will of the individual can never be reflected. In other words, it can be said that the central void is like a kind of black hole that engulfs everything. It could be said that Japan continues to be a society in which the group is always prioritized over the individual, much like the kinship society that prevailed in the West until the Middle Ages. It is still fresh in our minds that at the 2019 Aichi Triennale, an art festival held in Aichi Prefecture, the continuation of the exhibition “After ‘Freedom of Expression?’” was cancelled due to opposition from many citizens. One of the main reasons for this was the emotional opposition from the political right to a contemporary work in which a photograph of the emperor was stepped on and burned. At the same time, however, citizens who did not have right-wing tendencies also contacted the organizer, Aichi Prefecture, to complain about the burning of the Emperor’s photo, as if it was their father’s photo being burned. In other words, the Japanese mind is still primarily in a state of blood-race society with the emperor at the center. Of course, not many people today feel this way in daily life. But when some emotional reaction occurs, we may together unconsciously keep the emperor and his family at the center. The empty center still persists because it is sustained by an invisible kinship connection, one that unconsciously robs each of us of our individuality and swallows us into a collective nature. Moreover, the problem of Japan’s hollow structure manifests itself in our pathology. It has been reported that the incidence of Autism spectrum disorders is higher in Japan than in other countries. Giegerich analyzes the Japanese psyche and this hollow structure problem as follows: All this neither required a personal psychological effort in the sense of his self-overcoming, nor was it conceivable for a traditional I, logically contained in the social group and existing only as a small integral part of the larger whole, all by himself not to go along with what was the self-evident common practice. (Giegerich, 2018, p 27) Autism spectrum disorders may be the form that the cut of the person’s a priori immediate connectedness with the world and the (previously indissoluble) containment in it takes. If so, it would be the form of the first immediacy of the modern truly alienated subject. (Ibid, p. 28)

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In other words, the fact that ASD occurs more often in Japanese society than any other is precisely a major psychological movement to overcome Japan’s emptiness at the center. Of course, there is no direct link between personal illness and social pathology. However, as a Japanese, I am certain that this is a fact. In any case, the Japanese hollow structure is not an easy solution to overcome the nihilism of Western society. The Japanese hollow structure, as I have just described, is also a difficult situation that involves a whole other set of problems than those of the West. So how do we today relate to the emptiness that lies at the heart of the West and the East?

4. Empty ship, UFO, and mandala To be honest, I don’t have the answers needed to overcome this void. I don’t even know how to tackle this void. But I think I can give you some hints on how to deal with this theme. Then I would like to introduce the legend of the “Empty ship,” which was widespread in nineteenth-century Japan. There are several versions of this legend, but its characteristics can be summarized as follows. “First, an unknown object washes up on the shore. It appears to be an empty boat at first. A fisherman approaches the boat and looks inside, and finds a beautiful woman on board. The fisherman takes the woman back to the village, but she is mute and unable to communicate at all. The fisherman gives up and returns the woman to her boat, which drifts out to sea. Then the boat finally disappears in the sea. (Yanagida, 1962) This is a simple and short story, but the story of this empty boat has been passed down in many ways and many illustrations have been preserved. It has been retold under the title The Empty Ship, despite the fact that there is a woman on board. Characteristically, it is impossible to communicate with the women on board the ship at all. Not only are they unable to talk to each other, they cannot communicate in the first place, and both the woman and the ship disappear back into the sea. In other words, we cannot relate to this ship or to the woman. In that sense, it is still empty for us. In this story, we don’t know how to relate to it, but what is important is that this empty ship has washed ashore and that we are trying to relate to it. There is no involvement created there, but the possibility of involvement is created. For example, Jung talks about this ship-like UFO as follows. A political, social, philosophical, and religious conflict of unprecedented proportions has split the consciousness of our age. When such tremendous opposites split asunder, we may expect with certainty that the need for a mediator will make itself felt. Experience has amply confirmed that, in the psyche as in nature, a tension of opposites creates a potential which may express itself at any time in a manifestation of energy. (Jung, 1958, §784)

Emptiness in Western and Eastern cultures 169 The impetus for the manifestation of the latent psychic contents was given by the UFO. (Ibid, §785) According to Jung’s words, the empty ship is one example of potential. As we saw earlier, we cannot heal Western nihilism with Eastern ideas. Nor, conversely, can we heal the lack of subjectivity in the East with Western thought. People in both worlds are tormented by their own emptiness and try to fnd solutions in other worlds. This seems to be an inevitable quest. However, there is never an answer on the other side. The only possibility is to move back and forth between the two voids, knowing that communication with the opposite shore is not possible. Like the story of the empty ship, it tries to dialogue and then let’s go, over and over again. Continuing this process is what will bring a latent force into operation. Jung’s analysis of Pauli’s dream finds the task of reconfiguring the center of the mandala (Jung, 2019, p. 201). In the past the center of the mandala was God or Buddha, but in the present day we do not know what will appear at that center, and each one of us needs to go around that empty center and know what will appear there. Circumambulation as psychological inner movement around an empty center is needed. Jung’s individuation process is a process of engaging in the birth of something new in an empty vessel through such a circumambulation.

5. Dreams as an analogy of the opus with emptiness As an analogy of one of the tasks involved with this emptiness, I invite you to consider three dreams, which a woman in her thirties with anxiety neurosis reported. Dream 1: She is in a semi-dark room of a train. It is perhaps abroad. She has so much baggage and wants to set things right. But it doesn’t go well, because her possessions are too many. Then the conductor of train appears and says, “Show your ticket, please.” She soon finds the ticket. The conductor sees the ticket and goes by. I keep on to set things right, although I cannot find the right way. In the frst dream the client concentrates on her baggage and possessions. Though the conductor appears as the other, she give almost no attention to him. She cannot manage her possessions, but she is good at getting the other out of her way. She has no interest in the other. She can keep others who come to visit her away. But she can’t sort out her own baggage. Perhaps this communion with the other is what she really needs to put her confused mind in order. But she is preoccupied with organizing her own belongings alone. But on the other hand, she is on a train, which implies that she is beginning to lean into a kind of collective other. Dream 2 (six months after the first dream): She is on the broad bank of a river. It is medieval times. There are many people from different countries. The king’s brain seems to have been stolen by an evil person. In order to

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Tsuyoshi Inomata take it back, she chases after the thief. But the thief runs so fast that she cannot catch up. Because of the loss of the king’s brain, people lose their unity and become confused. She chases after the thief. On the way some confused people slash her with knives. She suffers injuries, but she still keeps chasing.

Now, this is where the king’s brain is stolen, i.e., the center turns out to be empty. She tries to regain what she is supposed to put in the center, but in the midst of her challenge, she is cut by a knife and wounded. It seems that in order to obtain that which is central to her life, she needs to change her own way of being while she is being wounded. At the same time, she is beside a river. In this sense, she can be considered to be fully aligned with her inner energy. The fact that she herself is injured at such a time indicates that something new has entered her without her noticing it. Jung said, Individuation has two principal aspects: in the first place it is an internal and subjective process of integration, and in the second it is an equally indispensable process of objective relationship. Neither can exist without the other, although sometimes the one and sometimes the other predominates. (Jung, 1946, §448) The two ways of individuation occur simultaneously. Dream 3 (two years after the first dream): She is in a town, a typical residential area. She stands in front of a branching of two roads. She is wondering which road she should take. She is wondering also whether she will give birth to a child, or whether she will stay alone. She worries about her life. She thinks about whether she will become a mother or remain single. It’s a big problem, but she knows that she has this confict in herself. She is still wondering to the end of this dream how to fll her emptiness. One option is to live on her own. Maybe it is to establish an ego or a sense of independence. It may be to choose her own life. But it may be a lonely road, perhaps one that leads to nihilism. The other option is to have a child. It is to step into a world of communality, and although at the center it is not her, a connection with people may be created. But what appears at the center may become a collective thing that is always repeatedly replaced. Which is the right choice? Perhaps none of this is important. What is important for her is to stand at this junction, repeatedly moving back and forth between two possibilities to fll the void. In fact, she decides to end her psychotherapy with this third dream and emerges from her anxiety neurosis. There is no right answer here. But what is important is that we, like her, rise from our anxiety, commit ourselves to the task of circumambulation as psychological inner movement around the two voids, and continue to work in this circulation until something new emerges at the center.

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References Giegerich, W. (2018) Buddhist and Western Psychology, Ontario, Dusk Owl Books. Jung, C. G. (1934) ‘Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious’, in Collected Works, Vol. 9/I, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1939-I) ‘Concerning Rebirth’, in Collected Works, Vol. 9/I, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C.G. (1939-II) ‘The Symbolic Life’, in Collected Works, Vol. 18, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1946) The Psychology of the Transference, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1958) Flying Saucers, A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Skies, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (1963) Memories, Dreams, Reflections, New York, Pantheon. Jung, C.G. (1976) Letters Volume 2 1951–1961, London: Routledge. Jung, C. G. (2019) Dream Symbols of the Individuation Process, New York, Princeton University Press. Jung, C. G. (2011) Introduction to Jungian Psychology: Notes of the Seminar on Analytical Psychology Given in 1925, New York, Princeton University Press. Kawai, H. (1995) Dreams, Myths & Fairy Tales in Japan, Zürich, Daimon Verlag. Kawai, H. (1996) Buddhism and the Art of Psychotherapy, Texas, A&M University Press. Yanagida, K. (1962) Utsubo-Bune no Hanashi [Story of Empty-Ship], Tokyo, Chikuma Shobou.

16 Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche as seen from the tales and dreams of the Ainu culture Mayumi Furukawa

1. Introduction Today’s psychology premises a modernistic subject based on the European thought; it targets the closed inner worlds of individuals. Traditionally, Japanese linguistics has held that the establishment of the subject of “I” in the Japanese language is ambiguous, and the subject is unclear compared to European’s modernized ego. Hayao Kawai, a pioneer who introduced Jungian psychology to Japan, wrote numerous books in which he shared insights about the Japanese psyche he gained through his clinical practices. Kawai (1995) focused on dream phenomenon called “interpenetration” described in Myths and Fairy Tales in Japan. Kawai noted that the distinction between oneself and others was ambiguous in medieval Japanese tales. These tales portrayed a state of mind where realities and dreams, and life and death could freely communicate with each other. He continued, “The remarkable synchronicity of events in dreams, this world, and the land of death was not considered unusual” (p. 19). Going back to ancient times, dreams played an important role for ancient people. Kawai (2016) discussed an episode about dreams described in Kojiki, or Records of Ancient Matters. In Kojiki, there were stories about humans receiving deities’ will and messages in dreams and about dreams and active reality being synchronized. In this chapter, the Ainu culture was introduced as another clue to form an image of ancient layers of the Japanese psyche and to contemplate the interpenetration and dreams for the Japanese people. There is a perception that the Ainu people built their own unique culture with traces of the Jomon period that had thrived throughout Japanese Islands for more than 10,000 years. Therefore, the spiritual culture in ancient layers of the Japanese psyche was hypothetically contemplated with a touch of archaeological knowledge and historical facts for better understanding.

2. The Jomon culture thrived more than 10,000 years The Jomon period is introduced in this section. Historically speaking, Homo sapiens born in the African continent reached the Japanese Islands during a glacial epoch about 40,000 years ago. The Jomon period, however, started about 13,000 years ago after the Old Stone Age. It thrived for more than 10,000 years

Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche 173 influenced by a changing ecosystem rapidly altered by climate warming and increasing humidity. The ancient people lived by hunting, fishing, and gathering abundant natural plant resources. In the Jomon period, unearthed human bones from both the north and the south of the Japanese Islands showed the same characteristics. Jomon’s unique facial structure and physical appearance were seen nowhere else in the world. It was also found that the inherited characteristics remained consistent from the beginning to the end of the Jomon period, which indicates that the Jomon people did not mix ethnic population (Yamada, Y., 2019, p. 59). Because the Jomon period lasted for more than 10,000 years, it is assumed that people shared a common language, as well as folklore and creation tales, with the connection to cosmology. In communities, there were large spaces for prayer to sacred spaces and ancestral spirits. From ruins such a large wooden temple and a stone worship circle, we can conclude that the people developed a complicated spiritual culture with sophisticated worship practices. The word “Jomon” was derived from the earthenware marked by a mesh pattern. Unbound creativity and expressions of gratitude can be seen from this uniquely designed earthenware and the clay figures, which can be found nowhere else. The clay figurines depict nurturing female shapes, to encourage safe births and abundant crops. Figure 16.1 is commonly known as “clay figure holding a baby.” A woman sits on side holding a baby. Yamada, Y. (2019) described, “Everything in this present life is a cyclical contemplation of death, circulating between the present life and the afterlife. In other words, the idea of resuscitation and circulation was the origin of the worldview” (p. 213). Earthenware with a dead baby inside indicated that there were customs intended to put the baby back into the mother’s body and pray for resuscitation. This artifact indicates that earthenware and resuscitation had a very strong connection. Women who accidentally died during delivery were buried in special ways – their faces were positioned to look in different directions. The ancient people believed that this accidental death would critically stop circulation and resuscitation (p. 217). Another example was seen at the Kanto region of Japan in the mid-Jomon period. The open space in the center of the circular community was a cemetery and the houses were built around the open space. This structure indicates that death and the dead were positioned in the most important place, namely in the heart of the community for these ancient people. Oshima described, “The characteristics of the Jomon period that thrived more than 10,000 years were: a sense of economy preservation, and not wasting natural resources unnecessarily; a sense of awe, respect, and coexistence with nature; and a sense of society without conflict” (2011). The ancient Jomon people, living off the bountiful natural resources of the forest, cared about the sustaining power of nature so that they hunted only when needed. They had built “the culture for coexistence and circulation” that was harmonized well with the rhythm of changes in nature (Yasuda, 1996). Maintaining the same culture over 10,000 years is noteworthy: it seems that the people of the Jomon period had knowledge to sustain resources without exploiting so that they did not develop technology more than necessary.

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Figure 16.1 “Clay figure of holding a baby.” In the collection at National Museum of Japanese History, middle of Jomon period, unearthed at Miyata sites, Hachioji, Tokyo

It is difficult, however, to connect the Jomon period and modern Japan directly. Japan of today was created by numerous and varied influences. Large-scale farming practices were not a significant aspect of the Jomon period. After farming was adopted in mainland Japan, culture slowly moved to the Yayoi period. In Hokkaido, a big island located in the northern part of Japan, some communities maintained a similar hunting-gathering lifestyle until recently, which is why

Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche 175 Hokkaido is said to have a “continued Jomon culture” today. Over time in Hokkaido, small changes could be seen: for example, people no longer used earthenware. Details are not described herein, but specifically, the culture diversified with the influx of different ethnic groups from the north. Gradually, a predominantly hunting-based culture emerged. This hunting-based culture, which has lasted through the modern age in Hokkaido, is today called the Ainu culture. The Jomon language is extinct and no linguistic traces remain. However, there is a theory that the Ainu language derived from the language spoken by people living in Hokkaido during the Jomon period. Kazuro Hanihara, the physical anthropologist, writes about the “dual-structure model” (Hanihara, 1991). He has a theory that the Jomon people initially lived throughout the Japanese Islands. People from the Chinese Continent crossed over to Japan and gradually mixed with the Jomon people, which eventually formed the population of mainland Japanese. Because of migration of the people from Hokkaido, the northern rim, and Ryukuu or Okinawa, the southern rim of the Japanese Islands, was not as great, the change for the population was not as dramatic. The recent growth in molecular biology has led to remarkable results in nuclear DNA analysis. Kanzawa et al. determined nuclear genome sequences of Jomon individuals’ bones from the Sanganji Shell Mound in Fukushima prefecture (dated 3000 years before present) with the Jomon characteristic DNA, and compared these nuclear genome sequences with those of worldwide populations. According to Kanzawa’s research, “The Jomon population lineage is best considered to have diverged before diversification of present-day East Eurasian populations, with no evidence of gene flow events between the Jomon and other continental populations.” Comparing three populations in the Japanese Islands today and the Jomon, “The Ainu and the Ryukyuan share more alleles with the Jomon than the mainland Japanese” and “suggesting smaller genetic contributions from continental populations in those two populations than for the mainland Japanese.” This research supports the dual-structure model of Hanihara (Kanzawa-Kiroyama, 2017). Furthermore, there are various opinions from historical and archaeological perspectives that hypothesize a connection between the Jomon culture and the Ainu culture: many places in the mainland Japan, especially the northern part of the Tohoku area, possibly derive their names from the Ainu language; the “Matagi,” the people who lived in this mountainous region and maintain a hunting culture, have incorporated Ainu words into their language. In the next section, the Ainu culture from the 13th century onward is introduced.

3. What is the Ainu culture? 3.1 The Ainu’s worldview This section summarizes the essence of the Ainu culture. Most significantly, the Ainu had a worldview that the very essence of all human beings, all animate beings, including animals, and all inanimate beings had an eternal and immortal

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soul that was part of their very essence. The word “Ainu” means human beings and “Kamuy” means deities. The Ainu believed that human beings had their unique afterlife and so as Kamuy, as divine, had the ability to circulate back and forth between their respective present life and afterlife. Kamuy for the Ainu, however, is not equal to God or Gods, the higher deity of many faiths. Kamuy is not an overarching “master” of human beings but rather on an equal footing with human beings. Nakagawa (1997), a linguist, stated that Kamuy should be close to “nature.” In other words, sparrows do not have their own divine nature. Every sparrow is Kamuy and every tree is also Kamuy. Natural phenomena such as fire, wind, and thunder, and inanimate beings such as tools, are considered to have some will or mind, and, as such, Kamuy. In the life of Ainu, “Kamuys are everywhere,” “Everything all around us is a part of Kamuy,” and therefore, “Kamuy exists in a state of divinity at all times” (Nakagawa, 2006). The Ainu worldview is one cosmos: all plants, animals, and objects – all living beings – all have their own unique identities and souls, and they are all connected to each other. From the Ainu cultural perspective, all human beings, all animals, all creatures have a spirit essence, clothed in flesh. In this context, all spirits are immortal. Animals visit the human world from the divine world, the land of Kamuys, as guests with a gift of their meat and fur. Therefore, hunting and fishing mean human beings welcoming Kamuys as their guests. Conversely, “When a human lived a virtuous and spiritually worthy life, they would attract divine beings and animals to themselves” (Fujimura, 1985, p. 192). Human beings and Kamuys helped each other to live with an equal footing. If humans were killed while hunting or drowned accidentally, they could protest against Kamuys. Insignificant killing was severely punished in the Ainu community, because the Ainu understood that any behavior that upset the give-and-take balance could cause disharmony across the whole world. The Ainu believed a thoughtless death would bring greater crisis upon humanity and upon nature. In early spring, the Ainu welcomed hunted baby-bears as “guests.” They lovingly bred these bears but then killed them at “i-omante” or the Bear Festival – to modern sensibilities, the practice seems cruel but it was not for the Ainu. Welcoming the bears to the land of the humans, sharing hospitality, leading them to release their spirits from their bodies, and sending them to the land of the dead with love: this ritual emphasizes the idea of circulation, of wishing the dead to return to their world with greater abundance. It is though that “I’omante” is a precursor to Jomon’s “Inoshishi-okuri,” or the Boar Festival, in which baby boars are bred and then ceremoniously killed (Segawa, 2016).

3.2 Dreams of the Ainu For the Ainu people who had the worldview described, dreams were real and actual and therefore, were regarded carefully. Yamada, T. (2019) said, “Dreams are produced to release spirits out of bodies and let them wander around while in sleep.” Dreams were the means to connect humans with transcendental beings such as Kamuys and the dead. Kayano (2017), a contemporary Ainu, talked about

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Figure 16.2 In the “cise,” or house, the hearth is in the middle of the house (Exhibition in Hokkaido Museum)

memories of his childhood. He recalled a time his father woke from sleep and knew immediately that an animal was caught in a trap, because he had dreamt of a visitor in his house. The Ainu’s belief about dreams was different from modern people. They thought, “What we see in dreams is true.” When the Ainu faced unsolvable problems, they prayed to the deity of fire and asked for dreams. The deity of fire, or Apehuchi Kamuy, was a mediator who had an important connection with all the deities. Ainu houses were built surrounding the hearth fire. The fire was indispensable for the Ainu’s livelihood from ancient times: it warmed them, they cooked with it, and it protected them from danger. Tanaka (2006) remarked that the Ainu house was the “uterine space symbolizing the deity’s womb.” He compared the Ainu home with its hearth at the center to a pit dwelling house during the Jomon period.

3.3 Tales of the Ainu The relationship between Kamuys and humans come alive in tales. Their tales were classified into three major parts: myth or kamuyyukar; epic or yukar; and prose tale or uepeker. It is believed the Ainu did not have a written language, therefore they handed down lore orally. The distinctive characteristic of the Ainu tales is a first-person narrative, simply told. In mythical tales, Kamuys related what happened to them in the first-person. In the modern Japanese language, first-person is generally translated as “I”; the Ainu language, however, is much more complicated. Ainu’s “I” distinguishes an individual “I” (the first-person singular) and quoted “I”: the level of person and subjects are distinct. In this section, we discuss essential elements of the Ainu language without linguistical discussion. For example, the Ainu language has a

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unique style in that the subject of the narrative is first person, but the verb is plural. For the Ainu people, the word “we (including other people)” indicated all of humanity (Nakagawa, 1997). Every Ainu tale, therefore, was possibly spoken in the plural. In particular, myths told in the first-person narrative used the special “we” as well as plural verbs (pp. 223, 225). Experts have discussed why the Ainu tales used the first-person narrative. One interpretation stems from Tusu-kur, the practice of shamanism in Ainu culture. Kamuy took possession of human beings so they essentially became two beings in one. Another perception, unique in the Ainu culture, was that deities, the dead, and human beings communicated directly with each other solely through dreams. Deities and the dead spoke to human beings through messages conveyed in dreams (Sato, 2004). Dreams were an important communication method between Kamuys and humans. As a result of this direct interpenetrative communication, “I” naturally became the narrative pattern. Another notable characteristic of the Ainu language is that it does not have conjugation of present form or past form; therefore, there is no clear distinction between the two (Tamura, 2013). By this stretch of the imagination, it could mean, “I am always here, I am eternal, and I always exits.” As an Ainu, living in the circulative worldview, “now” could mean being here “right now” but also being here in timeless existence. The Ainu did not think of the passage of time as a line. Storytellers improvised and took on different intonations so myths had an improvisational aspect. Myths were told from the view point of “myself ” or “ourselves” and shared by storytellers with listeners as well as passed on to the dead and to Kamuys who were everywhere. In this way, myths were divinely echoed onto the dead; living beings could imagine that one life lived here and now did not mean one was completely alone, because “I” meant both “myself ” and “ourselves.”

4. The ancient layers of the Japanese psyche – great nature The Jomon period and the Ainu culture have been outlined in the previous sections. The Ainu language is currently facing with a “crisis of extinction” because of the sharp decrease of native Ainu speakers. The Japanese language and the Ainu language have some similarities; however, it must be noted from a linguistical perceptive that a basic language system is considerably different. There is no universally agreed upon theory even today as to how the Japanese language was formed. Most scholars agree that the origins of the Ainu language were separated from the Japanese language in ancient time; therefore, the Japanese language spoken today was established by other influences that did not include Ainu. When a mystic worldview appeared in the ancient community, an individual identity was not separated from the rest of the community, as is theoretically found in recent years to be the case in European-originating cultures as “ego.” Because these ancient people believed themselves to be connected and united to the natural and spiritual world, they believed in synchronicity as an active, real phenomenon. Animism, the idea of everything having a spirit, was likely to have

Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche 179 been universal in the ancient community. The author proposes that the value ancient Japanese culture placed on animism may be unique among East Asian and other Oriental cultures and undertook further research into the time prior to the medieval period as hinted by Kanji and the Japanese psyche before the adoption of Buddhism as the predominant religion to discover further proof of this uniqueness. During the ancient times, primitive ancestor worship and nature worship arose in Japanese culture. The Japanese characteristic of honoring one’s ancestors is widely recognized and discussed. Although foreign influences have come across the ocean to impact Japan, they have been uniquely altered and interpreted through the special climate of Japanese history and culture. Japanese literary works by Ryunosuke Akutagawa and Shusaku Endo (Silence) are notable examples. Akutagawa (2014) writes in his The Faint Smiles of the Gods about the Christian missionary’s suffering as “In this land some sort of mysterious power is lurking in the mountains, in the forests, and in the towns, with rows of houses” (p. 6). He also added “The powers lurking in the mountains and rivers of the land spirits which men cannot see.” The foreign culture from overseas – the Christianity, Chinese characters from Chinese culture, and Buddhism – were all transmuted in Japan. He also described that “the power that destroys” and “the power that recreates” (p. 18). In the Heian period (the 8th century), Saicho, a Buddhist priest who trained in China, left the message, “All things have the Buddha nature.” The mindset that everything represents the Buddha and even nature and inanimate beings have the nature of Buddha oddly matches to the sense of Japanese people. When Kawai, the scholar cited earlier, studied at the Jung Institute in Zurich, he was asked at the final examination, “What is a symbol of self?” He answered, “It is everything. Even desks, chairs, and all” (Kawai, 2001). As Kawai repeatedly describes Japanese people’s inner world is impacted by the power of nature far more than that of the Europeans. However, he also points out that the linguistic meaning of “nature” is essentially different between Japanese and English. Kawai (1995) writes, “[It might be said that ‘shizen’ or nature] expresses a state in which everything flows spontaneously. There is something like an ever-changing flow in which everything – sky, earth, and man – is contained” (pp. 26–27). While it is not easy to make a connection between these two facts, modern Japanese people have a special sense of connection to nature, and this special sense originated with the Jomon culture, or perhaps maternal culture, that lasted extraordinarily for a long time, over 10,000 years throughout the Japanese Islands – their relationship cannot be ignored. The Ainu culture maintained their dependence on hunting-gathering until the modern age; the mythical community of a bygone era has lasted within our modern society until recent years. It is interesting to consider that such spiritual culture could have been rooted throughout the Japanese Islands since ancient times. A tomb for tools or a memorial service for dull and broken needles, for example, are an indication of a worldview that everything, even inanimate beings, had life or soul. This same

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worldview can still be seen in the Ainu culture and among the Japanese people of today. A modern-day example can be found in the creative craftwork skills represented in Japanese animation: lives are given to inanimate characters. A traditional Japanese way of hosting called “omotenasi” is another good example. It means that Japanese hospitality, with its meticulous attention to detail and deep desire to be of service, demonstrates this special sense of love of nature, of sensitivity, and of heartfelt connection. This sense of connection to a greater power has lived within the Japanese people for ages. On the other hand, Japan of today is in danger of losing its mythical systems and strongly rooted worldview of connection among all things. When the Jomon was replaced by the Yayoi, the livelihood was transformed from hunting-gathering to farming. This transformation had already created conflict and changes in the worldview, but the influence brought by rapid Westernization is much greater today. The long-established culture of connection is no longer as strong and has lost its foundation. The rapidity of Western influences on contemporary Japanese culture also impacted Japanese self-identity. As Japanese adopted aspects of Westernized social-economic systems, they also adopted Westernized personal identity, or ego, thereby weakening a sense of connection to community and nature. Recent linguistic grammar studies in all around the world, however, show the mandatory use of the subject “I” can primarily be seen only in the western part of Europe. The use of the individual ego in modern times as is predominantly done in European cultures is now viewed distinctively (Nakagawa, 2010). Kawai (2008) has written about the mental philosophy of the Buddhism: This ego has the premise of connection with others. However, it is not about the relationship of an independent ego to others. It is instead a pervasive sort of connection that exists before the ego state, a connection in which the participants share mutually the deep “empty” world. (p. 112) In the Japanese psyche, it is certain that there is a deep connection with something which can only be described as “nature that existed before words.” How can it be possible to maintain individuality and connect with the entire world in harmony? The explicit strictness of the subject and the first-person narrative in the Ainu language was explained in the previous section. The individuality assumed in the Ainu culture does not merely mean one individuality hidden in the entirety. The equality between human beings and Kamuys is articulated and emphasized. Each of them is in harmony with the world while simultaneously aware of individual identity. Hunting-gathering people, like the Ainu, lived hard lives. Hunting, risking life in a one-on-one battle, simultaneously at one with self, deities, and animal, and confronting nature directly, all of these experiences perhaps helped to formalize the identity of the self as larger than a single entity. These hard lives formed a path to worship and respect nature and commit to living actively rather than passively. These experiences inspired the Ainu to take responsibilities for their lives and consider themselves as one with the entire

Ancient layers of the Japanese psyche 181 universe. Thus, one person’s life contains the whole world. A positive commitment can be seen as a mark of respect toward the “invisible world.” Nakagawa (2013) introduced the verb “siri,” which means “to see visible world.” This verb gives a hint to assume that there is a sense “to see invisible world.” In fact, when the writer of this chapter met the successor of the Ainu traditions who was related by blood to the Ainu, the first question I was asked was, “Which world do you live in, measurable or unmeasurable?” Jung also studied the invisible and unmeasurable world through dreams and synchronicity. In recent years, psychology has increasingly been valued as science; however, when compared with other activities conducted by human beings, the focus of Jungian psychology on the invisible soul and dreams has tremendous unexplored potential. Looking forward, perhaps Jungian psychology can reveal a rich and heretofore invisible and unmeasurable world we can only begin to imagine.

References Akutagawa, R. (2014) Kamigami no Bishou [The Faint Smiles of the Gods]. Tokyo: Aozora-bunko POD. Fujimura, H. (1985) Ainu, kamigami to ikiru hitobito [The Ainu, who live with Denties]. Tokyo: Fukutake Shoten. Hanihara, K. (1991) ‘Dual structure model for the population history of the Japanese’, in Japan Revie, 2: 1–33. Kanzawa-Kiriyama, H. (2017) ‘A partial nuclear genome of the Jomons who lived 3000 years ago in Fukusima, Japan’, in Journal of Human Genetics, 62: 213–221. Kawai, H. (1995) Myths and Fairy Tales in Japan. Einsiedeln: Daimon Verlag. Kawai, H. (2001) Mirai heno Kioku [Memory to the Future]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shinsho. Kawai, H. (2008) Buddhism and the Art of Psychotherapy. Texas: Texas A&M University Press. Kawai, H. (2016) Shinwa to Nihonjin no Kokoro [Myths and Japanese Psyche]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kayano, S. (2017) Ainu Saijiki [The Ainu Collection of Seasonal Events]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo Nakagawa, H. (1997) Ainu no Monogatari Sekai [The Ainu’s World of Tales]. Tokyo: Heibonsha Library. Nakagawa, H. (2006) Ainu Gogaku tono Taiwa [Dialogue with the Ainu Language], in Ohno, S. and Kanaseki, H. (2006) Koukogaku, Jinruigaku, Gengogaku tono Taiwa: Nihonjin wa dokokarakitanoka [Conversing with Archaeology, Anthropology, and Linguistics: Where the Japanese People Came From], 151–206. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nakagawa, H. (2010) Ainu go no mukouni hirogaru Sekai [The World Spread Beyond the Ainu Language]. Kyoto: Henshu-Group SURE. Nakagawa, H. (2013) New Express Ainu Language. Tokyo: Hakusuisha. Oshima, N. (2011) Jomon no Sekaikan – Shizen tono Kyousei, Ainu Bunka no Genryu wo Motomete [The Worldview of the Jomon – Seeking for Coexistence with the Nature and the Origins of the Ainu Culture] [PDF file]. Online. Available www. pref.hokkaido.lg.jp/ks/bns/jomon/zyoumonnsekaikann.pdf

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Sato, T. (2004) ‘Ainu Bungaku ni okeru Ichininsho no Mondai [Notes on the “First Person Narrative Style” in the Ainu Oral Literature]’, in The Annual Report on Cultural Science, 112: 171–185. Segawa, T. (2016) Ainu to Jomon [Ainu and Jomon]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shinsho. Tamura, S. (2013) Ainugo no Sekai [The World of the Ainu Language]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan. Tanaka, M. (2006) Jomon no Medusa [Medusa in Jomon]. Tokyo: Gendaishokan. Yamada, T. (2019) Ainu no Sekaikan [The Worldview of the Ainu]. Tokyo: Kodansha. Yamada, Y. (2019) Jomon Jidai no Rekishi [History of the Jomon Period]. Tokyo: Kodansha Gendai Shinsho. Yasuda, Y. (1996) Morino Nihon Bunka [Japanese Culture in the Forest]. Tokyo: Shin-Shisaku-sha.

17 Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy of care and education in relation to Jungian psychology Ryutaro Nishi

Introduction Play and imagination, supported by a sustained relationship between children and practitioners, form the basis of early childhood care and education (ECCE). In this respect, ECCE has much in common with play therapy for children, as both are based on human encounters that encompass mutual trust and playful imagination. However, ECCE is grounded in the daily lives of a diverse group of children, whereas play therapy is conducted within the confines of a playroom. Admitting that there are many differences between the two practices, psychotherapeutic knowledge, including Jungian psychology, can intensify the understanding of ECCE as it explores the essence of human imagination and relatedness. There are still few studies on psychotherapeutically informed approaches to ECCE. Indeed, some psychotherapists offer consulting services to the ECCE settings about children with emotional difficulties and treat some of the clinical cases in therapy, but the human encounters emerging in the normal ECCE settings are rarely explored from a psychotherapeutic point of view. In recent years, some ECCE researchers have begun to apply the Tavistock method of psychoanalytic infant observation to ECCE. This focuses mainly on understanding the emotional interplay between children and adults in the ECCE settings by information gained through projective identification (Elfer, 2016). However, while the infant observation method requires the observer to refrain from actively participating in the situation, ECCE practitioners need to commit themselves to the children in the relationship. To deepen the understanding of the dynamic nature of the mutually trusting relationship built by the contributions of both the children and the adult, different psychotherapeutic approaches would also be helpful. As Jungian psychology explores the transformative process emerging in a mutually trusting relationship, it would be suitable to understand deeply the ECCE relationship. It also offers a richer understanding of children’s imagery beyond reductive interpretation. Conversely, as Freud and Jung both used unconscious expressions in everyday lives beyond the confines of the therapeutic situation, ECCE practice will offer a field of research into the basis of the relatedness and the imagination of human beings.

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The present study discusses the relevance of the ECCE philosophy of Makoto Tsumori (1926–2018), one of the most respected ECCE researchers and practitioners in Japan, to Jungian psychology. He dedicated himself to ECCE practice with children with special needs for many years, and his case studies are comparable to those of psychodynamic play therapy, where he underwent the processes of mutual transformation through encounters with children. This study shows that he can be labelled ‘an unknowing Jungian’ in Samuels’s (1985) terms.

Method Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy of care and education and its conceptual association with Jungian psychology are explored through both the theoretical and the clinical aspects. With a summary of his life and work, the theoretical review encompasses the fundamental tenets of Tsumori’s philosophy and demonstrates their commonality with the ideas posited by Jungian psychology. In clinical terms, one of his case studies relating most to Jungian psychology is re-examined, and its relevance to Jung’s therapeutic concept of transformation is discussed. Based on the examination of Tsumori’s pioneering work, how Jungian psychology and ECCE practice can contribute to each other is discussed.

Theoretical examination The life and work of Makoto Tsumori Makoto Tsumori was a pioneer of developmental psychology and ECCE in Japan. He started his career as a researcher after World War II and soon became an acclaimed child psychologist by creating a unique developmental test that captures a narrative quality and which was used in practice throughout Japan (Tsumori and Inage, 1961; Tsumori and Isobe, 1965). Later, he came to recognise the limitations of the objectivistic approach of psychology at that time. He also began to be concerned about the danger that the developmental index of his test might be used prejudicially towards children with special needs. Struggling with these difficult problems for years, he created a new methodology of understanding the inner world of children that does not exclude the observer’s subjectivity but encompasses the commitment of the observer – practitioner as the necessary tool for understanding children (Tsumori, 1974). He calls these years of theoretical struggle ‘the revolution era’, centring on 1970, which is Tenkai-ki in Japanese, which also means the period of methodological turn. In his newly formed methodology, the researcher is no longer a detached observer, as in traditional psychology, who can freely decide the research focus at will, apart from the children’s own needs. Instead, he became an observer – practitioner who respects the needs of children and commits himself to a mutually trusting relationship with them. Tsumori then decided to become a researcher and practitioner of ECCE in a special school and attempted to understand the inner world of children through his encounters with them. He developed his ideas by immersing himself in

Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy 185 mutually trusting relationships with children, and he sought theoretical support from educational philosophy and psychotherapy (Tsumori, 1987, 1997). As he was working with children with special needs, he was inspired by the clinical theories of Sigmund Freud, Erik Erikson, Bruno Bettelheim and Carl Jung. Based on his experiences of running a special school, he developed his own philosophy, which influenced many ECCE researchers and practitioners. He became a leading figure in Japanese ECCE, but his philosophy, especially its underlying psychotherapeutic viewpoint, has rarely been reviewed (Nishi, 2018).

Tsumori’s philosophy in relation to Jungian psychology Two features of Tsumori’s philosophy are particularly related to Jungian psychology. One is the inquiry into the inner world of human beings in a universally meaningful way. The other is the experience of mutual transformation as a foundation of the ECCE relationship. Tsumori was inspired by reading Jung in his ‘revolution era’, but he rarely cited Jung directly. It was not Jung’s specific theories but his approach to the inner world that Tsumori seems to have sympathised with. He often emphasised that it was not theoretical considerations but the experiences of deepening his practice that shaped his philosophy (Tsumori, 2002). Therefore, this study points out the commonalities in the clinical attitudes of Tsumori and Jung, including some which Tsumori may not have been consciously aware of.

The inquiry into the inner world of human beings One of the basic ideas that penetrated Tsumori’s revolution era is that children have an inner world far beyond what is objectively observable. They are struggling to find their way of being in a meaningful way by experiencing different kinds of imagery. The inner world is the foundation of human development, though adults may often fail to recognise its meaning and consider it insignificant. In the field of education, there is always much social pressure from inside and outside to mould children into a cheap but competent labour force, ignoring their agency and individuality. Tsumori’s philosophy played an important part in protecting children from such social pressure and making the ECCE community respect children. Tsumori regarded ECCE not only as a way of fostering children but also as a way of learning about the essence of human beings. ‘When searching for the truth in life, children are even more earnest than adults. By encountering children, we know the truths children crave in their world are the same as ours, at root, in our own lives’ (Tsumori, 1997, p. 13). Therefore, he regarded even children’s expressions that appear to be maladaptive or meaningless on the surface to be a serious attempt to find meaning in life that is common to all human beings. The process of children’s struggle to find meaning is reflected in the imagery they create, which cannot be deciphered by conscious reasoning. The ECCE practitioner must commit themselves to the process with their whole person and support children to incubate the imagery. He once poetically described this

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process of commitment: ‘I find my way, in the form of reveries, into the children’s being, or the human being. It is quite different from manipulating children as objects. It is immersing myself in the being itself’ (Tsumori, 1997, p. 36). In this way, the practitioner approaches the inner world of children by giving their own conscious and unconscious processes free rein. Tsumori’s inquiry into ECCE is related to Jungian psychology in that he values children’s symbolic expression, which may be regarded as meaningless by the collective consciousness governing the modern world and interpreted it as a reflection of the children’s search for truth in their own life. Jung, in the earliest period of his career as an analyst, tried to find meaning within the utterances of a schizophrenic patient, with whom no other staff in the ward could sympathetically communicate. Jung wrote: Though we are still far from being able to explain all the relationships in that obscure world, we can maintain with complete assurance that in dementia praecox there is no symptom which could be described as psychologically groundless and meaningless. Even the most absurd things are nothing other than symbols for thoughts which are not only understandable in human terms but dwell in every human breast. In insanity we do not discover anything new and unknown; we are looking at the foundations of our own being. The matrix of those vital problems on which we are all engaged. (Jung, 1908, para. 387) Here, Jung points out that we are no different regardless of whether we have psychoses or not and that we find the same foundation as human beings if we try to decipher unconscious meaning conveyed through associations and imagery. Along with Jung and Freud, pioneers in depth psychologies have tried to show the importance of unconscious meaning for human lives. Jung also emphasised the need to understand children’s inner world, without reducing it to the limited confines of past experiences (Jung, 1909). Similarly, Tsumori demonstrated how children’s expressions have meaning in their own lives, however trivial and primitive they may appear to be. Nowadays, children’s artistic expressions are highly valued in ECCE, but part of that may be because such expressions are considered to be just one of the useful tools for extending children’s competency. In contrast, he insisted that we can learn much about the basis of the human development process which is common to ourselves, through encountering children and sharing imagination. Conceived in this way, he made the concept of ECCE research a study of human beings, which is not limited to a study of technique and practicalities about childhood education (Tsumori, Tsumori and Muto, 2001).

The experience of mutual transformation Transformation is the core concept of Jungian psychotherapy (Jung, 1931), and Tsumori had experienced similar transformative processes in his ECCE practice. He always encountered children with deep respect and emphasised the importance of mutuality in ECCE relationships and human development. Reflection is

Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy 187 the key concept in his ECCE philosophy. He explains the experience of reflection in ECCE as follows: To understand the world of children, it is insufficient to remain an outside observer. We would gain a deeper understanding if we join in the life of the children, step inside the responsive relatedness with them, and change ourselves in relation to them. The change needed here, in reality, is not just about the technicalities of how to talk to and act with children. What seems to be a trivial action is a part of our own lives and has deep roots in ourselves. Even when we make just a small change in our behaviour, sometimes we need to rethink our frame of mind from the bottom up. Reflection on one’s action is a problem involving the whole person. (Tsumori, 1987, p. 203) Here, he clarifies that his concept of reflection is not just a superficial checking and modification of technical details but a process of almost fundamental change in the practitioner’s way of being. This process is led by the experience of encountering children and with the help of children’s symbolic expressions. Sometimes he gained insight into his way of being as a practitioner through reflecting on his dreams (Tsumori, 1997). This can be seen as comparable to a lived experience of countertransference analysis. Jung is the pioneer of the exploration and practice of mutual relationships in psychotherapy. He invented the concept of countertransference along with Freud (1910), but even more, Jung’s theory is characterised by the concept of transformation with his truly mutual and egalitarian attitude (Jung, 1931). He preceded Sándor Ferenczi (1933), who emphasised the need to recognise and correct his countertransference errors, and also Harold Searles (1975), another ‘unknowing Jungian’, who required the analyst to accept the patients’ effort to cure their analyst and grow as a person accordingly. Although Jung is known to have been unenthusiastic about child analysis (Fordham, 1980), he suggested the possibility of the application of his therapeutic attitude of transformation to the field of education, pointing out that the teacher can only exert educational influence on the children through their personality (Jung, 1928). He also suggested the educational use of the concept of countertransference as an invaluable tool that could shed light on relationships with children (Jung, 1928). This application of a Jungian psychotherapeutic attitude to education is still a relatively unexplored theme, but it is important as most ECCE researchers and practitioners today recognise the significance of relatedness. Tsumori’s theory and practice form unique and pioneering work in this area.

Re-examination of the case Case illustration To give a concrete example of Tsumori’s philosophy in practice, one of his case studies is re-examined in relation to Jungian psychology. The case selected for

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scrutiny is described in a chapter entitled ‘The meaning of clothes for a child’ (Tsumori, 1979). It is one of the cases that played an important role in giving insight into his ‘revolution era’, and one of the rare occasions when he cited Jung. A boy called K joined the preschool class of the special school where Tsumori worked as a practitioner and adviser at that time. Tsumori did not elucidate K’s diagnostic details in the chapter, which is often the case with his style, probably because he believed that diagnostic information often led to prejudiced points of view. From his case description, it can be presumed that K was an autistic boy, who is four years old or younger with some intellectual and emotional disorder and that he did not utter a word. K began to play in a friendly manner with Tsumori when he came to the school, but he could not relate well to other children. When something went wrong for K, he would often hit his head against the floor or the wall. He did this so hard that there is still a scar on the wall of their house where he hit his head, his mother said. He had a habit of throwing off his clothes in the school and stubbornly resisted the intervention of adults. His mother was anxious about his problematic behaviour and often stopped it by scolding him. She tried many times in vain to make him wear his shoes, which he constantly threw off. One day, Tsumori took him for a walk to a park near the school, as he was not getting along with the other children and had begun to hit his head on the floor. K enjoyed playing in the small river that ran through the park and took off his clothes to play in the water. K played for a long time there and when lunchtime was nearing, Tsumori tried to dress K and prompted him to get back to school but the child resisted vehemently and began to hit his head against the ground and bite Tsumori furiously. Tsumori changed his mind and said, ‘Sorry to have been pushy, you may play in the water again’. K immersed his clothes in the water, showed them to Tsumori and hung them on a rail to dry. Tsumori saw some people passing by, looking at the boy with disabilities in a discriminatory manner with a look of contempt. Then came some people who had no prejudices towards him. A group of children came to the park led by an ECCE teacher, who was encouraging the children to play in the water, saying, ‘It’s all right if your clothes get wet’. The children and K played together in the water without any preconceptions or prejudices. Soon after this day of satisfying play experience, K began to wear his clothes willingly and was gradually able to play comfortably in the presence of other children in the class. K’s mother stopped scolding the boy and told Tsumori that she felt that K is a very precious boy and that she needs to cherish and nurture his gentle heart and sensitivity.

Tsumori’s interpretation of the case In this case, Tsumori interpreted that clothes might have meant to K a form of social restriction unilaterally imposed on him. Amplifying the meaning of clothes, referring to Inazo Nitobe’s (1938) interpretation of Thomas Carlyle’s philosophy, which influenced Japanese intellectuals in Tsumori’s youth, he suggested

Makoto Tsumori’s philosophy 189 that clothes can be culturally enriched expressions of human personality as well as barriers to the naked truth of human existence. Then Tsumori interpreted the clothes to signify the persona in Jungian psychology, referencing the dream of putting on a stranger’s hat illustrated in Psychology and Alchemy (Jung, 1944). In contrast to many ECCE practitioners who regard clothes as signifying the discipline and adaptation of children to society, Tsumori emphasised that clothes also involve the adaptation of children to their inner worlds. If an adult can only contemplate clothes as the framework for the socialisation of a child, when that child is actually in need of a human and empathic relationship, the child may want to rebel against the clothes which symbolise for him the shackles of social norms. Though K’s conduct was difficult to understand on the surface, Tsumori found that the child expressed his desire for a human relationship by projecting the naked self.

Reinterpretation of the case Tsumori focused on the symbolic meaning of clothes as summarised earlier, but this case may also be considered in terms of the mutually transformative relationship. The restorative change that occurred when Tsumori and K visited the park was made possible only when Tsumori altered his attitude. He discarded the role of the adult who forces social norms on the child; instead, he accepted the existence of the child for what it was and tried to discover the meaning that was not overtly available from the child’s actions. Metaphorically speaking, this change in his attitude amounts to discarding unneeded defensive barriers to the real human encounter. This synchronic transformation between the child and the adult is comparable to Jung’s description of how the psychotherapeutic process strips off all the pretenses from both analyst and client. Jung wrote: For since the analytical work must inevitably lead sooner or later to a fundamental discussion between ‘I’ and ‘You’ and ‘You’ and ‘I’ on a plane stripped of all human pretenses. It is very likely, indeed it is almost certain, that not only the patient but the doctor as well will find the situation ‘getting under the skin’. Nobody can meddle with fire or poison without being affected in some vulnerable spot; for the true physician does not stand outside his work but is always in the thick of it’. (Jung, 1944, para. 5) There is reason to think the change in Tsumori’s personality is deeper than what can be seen on the surface, as he wrote, ‘To understand something does not mean merely placing it in a network of preexisting knowledge. To understand means to change oneself. To encounter children means to grow and change oneself every day’ (Tsumori, 2002). The case of K evinces such fundamental change in attitude and not merely a change in technique. Around the time of this case, Tsumori experienced a fundamental transformation in his being as a researcher, and these years of his struggle may be considered analogous to what is called the

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creative illness (Ellenberger, 1964). In his case studies recorded at this time, there are some references to the experience of immersing himself in basic materials like water and sand, as if to immerse himself deeper into his relationship with children beyond the level of consciousness (Tsumori, 1979, 1980). Through these experiences, he also created the new methodology of the case study, departing from the strictly behaviouristic academic circles of psychology. This change as a researcher is also a process of stripping off superfluous barriers to sincere encounters with children. Tsumori’s own transformative process occurred along with the unfolding of these cases. When Tsumori’s inner attitude changed, K’s behaviour and his mother’s outlook – the family constellation (Jung, 1928) – changed synchronistically. As Tsumori acknowledged, ‘Education and care are not just a profession, but a deed that requires the commitment of one’s own life’ (Tsumori, 1997, p. 295). This process is parallel to Jung’s therapeutic tenet of transformation because it asks for a fundamental personality change in all the parties to therapy.

Discussion Tsumori’s exploration of forging mutually trusting relationships with children indicates that the affiliations established in ECCE settings can be understood more profoundly from the psychotherapeutic viewpoint. Jungian psychology can contribute to this type of understanding, especially concerning the mutually transformative process of growing. Hayao Kawai (1989), the pioneer of Jungian psychology in Japan, suggested that in modern times and within a safe and protected therapeutic frame, psychotherapy may be seen as an attempt to revitalise communitas (Turner, 1969), a condition that makes possible human encounters free from undue social restrictions. He emphasised the importance of maintaining the secure frame of therapy and the danger of the unprotected emergence of communitas, especially with borderline cases. As is shown in Tsumori’s case, however, children can generate communitaslike situations within safe and pleasurable play. Play, in its most natural form where children can genuinely enjoy it, carries the capacity for holding (Winnicott, 1960) human relationships and its spontaneous development. Through play with holding capacity, we can learn the fundamentals of human encounters when we enter sincere relationships with children. ECCE practices do not merely help children to develop. From the Jungian perspective, the ECCE setting represents a place where people – children and adults alike – gather and grow together in their individuation processes. Where children gather in a trusting relationship with adults, the impetus to grow and develop would be constellated in the community. Both children and practitioners lead their individuation processes while interacting with each other consciously as well as unconsciously. Tsumori’s case studies illustrate such processes. Jungian psychology and Tsumori’s ECCE philosophy can mutually enrich their knowledge of transformative processes and human relationships.

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Acknowledgements The author acknowledges MARUZEN-YUSHODO Co., Ltd. (https://kw. maruzen.co.jp/kousei-honyaku/) for the English language editing.

References Elfer, P. (2016). Psychoanalytic theory, emotion and early years practice. In T. David, K. Goouch and S. Powell (Eds.) The Routledge International Handbook of Philosophies and Theories of Early Childhood Education and Care. Abingdon: Routledge. Ellenberger, H. F. (1964). La Notion de Maladie créatrice. Dialogue: Canadian Philosophical Review, 1964, 25–41. Ferenczi, S. (1933[1949]). Confusion of the tongues between the adults and the child: The language of tenderness and of passion. International Journal of PsychoAnalysis, 30, 225–230. Fordham, M. (1980). The emergence of child analysis. In R. Hobdell (Ed.) Freud, Jung, Klein – the Fenceless Field: Essays on Psychoanalysis and Analytical Psychology. London: Routledge, 1995. Freud, S. (1910). The future prospects of psycho-analytic therapy. In Standard Edition, Vol. 11. Jung, C. G. (1908). The content of the psychoses. In Collected Works, Vol. 3. Jung, C. G. (1909). The family constellation. In Collected Works, Vol. 2. Jung, C. G. (1928). Child development and education. In Collected Works, Vol. 17. Jung, C. G. (1931). Problems of modern psychotherapy. In Collected Works, Vol. 16. Jung, C. G. (1944). Psychology and alchemy. In Collected Works, Vol. 12. Kawai, H. (1989). Sei to Shi no Setten. [The interface of life and death.] Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nishi, R. (2018). Kodomo to Deau Hoikugaku: Shisou to Jissen no Yugo wo Mezashite. [Encountering children: A humanistic and relational approach to childcare.] Kyoto: Minerva Shobou. Nitobe, I. (1938). Ifuku tetsugaku kougi. [The lecture on Thomas Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus.] In Nitobe Inazo Zenshuu [Collected Works of Nitobe Inazo], Vol. 9, 1969. Samuels, A. (1985). Jung and the Post-Jungians. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Searles, H. F. (1975). The patient as therapist to his analyst. In Countertransference and Related Subjects. Madison: International Universities Press, 1975, pp. 380–459. Tsumori, M. (1974). Hoikukenkyu tenkai no katei. [The process of revolution in education and care research.] In Tsumori, M., Honda, M., Matsui, T. Ningengenshou to shiteno Hoikukenkyu. [Research into education and care as human phenomena.] Tokyo: Koseikan. Tsumori, M. (1979). Kodomogaku no Hajimari. [The beginning of child study.] Tokyo: Froebel-Kan. Tsumori, M. (1980). Hoiku no Taiken to Shisaku: Kodomo no Sekai no Tankyuu. [Experience and thoughts in ECEC: In search of children’s world.] Tokyo: Dainippon Tosho. Tsumori, M. (1987). Kodomo no Sekai wo Dou Miruka: Koui to Sono Imi. [An appreciation of children’s world: their action and its meaning.] Tokyo: NHK Shuppan.

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Tsumori, M. (1997). Hoikusha no Chihei: Shiteki Taiken kara Fuhen ni Mukete. [The horizon of an ECCE practitioner: Starting from personal experience, striving for universality.] Kyoto: Minerva Shobou. Tsumori, M. (2002). Hoiku no chi wo motomete. [In search of the wisdom of education and care.] Kyouikugaku Kenkyu [The Japanese Journal of Educational Research], 69, 357–366. Tsumori, M. and Inage, N. (1961). Nyuuyouji Seishin Hattatsu Shindanhou: 0-Sai kara 3-Sai made. [Diagnostic assessment method of mental development for early childhood: From 0 to age 3 years.] Tokyo: Dainippon Tosho. Tsumori, M. and Isobe, K. (1965). Nyuuyouji Seishin Hattatsu Shindanhou: 3-Sai kara 7-Sai made. [Diagnostic assessment method of mental development for early childhood: From 3 to age 7 years.] Tokyo: Dainippon Tosho. Tsumori, M., Tsumori, F. and Muto, T. (2001). Ningen no gaku to shiteno hoikugaku heno kibou. [Hope for the ECCE research as a study of human being.] Hattatsu [Development], 88, 69–81. Turner, V. (1969). The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine. Winnicott, D. W. (1960). The theory of the parent-infant relationship. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, 41, 585–595.

Index

Adam 107 Adams, Nicola 97 aeonic movement 11 Age of Aquarius 11 Age of Pisces 11 aggression 56, 102 aging 28 Aikido 35 Ainu culture: dreams of 176–177, 181; tales of 177–178; worldview 10–11, 175–176, 180–181 Aion 17, 141 Akita, Iwao 40, 115 Akutagawa, Ryunosuke 179 Allison, Anne 72 Amaterasu Omikami 29 ambivalence 100 analytical psychology 4, 6, 10, 43, 54, 75, 103, 120, 122 ancestors 26–27, 179–181 and/both 31 anima 105–106, 136–137 anime 64 animism 10–11, 178–179 animus 105–106 anti-Semitism 56 archetypal Father 43 archetypes: civilization and 75–82; clinical researches 76–82; concept of 75; house imago 142–148; symbol formation process 141–142 Ariadne’s Lament (Nietzsche) 37 arts 18–19 art therapy 121–123 Ashikaga period 35–36 Attention and Interpretation (Bion) 5 autism spectrum disorders (ASD) 168 auto-erotism 55

Baum test 122–124, 127 beauty 28 becoming 21–22, 153–154 Beer, Robert 29 Bergoglio, Jorge Mario 84 Bernardone, Pica di 86, 89 Bernardone, Pietro di 86, 89 Bettelheim, Bruno 185 Beyond the Pleasure Principle (Freud) 55 Bion, Wilfred R. 4, 5 Bleuler, Eugene 100 bodhicitta 29 Bodhisattva of Compassion 114–115 Borromean knot 57 boy-boy 101 boy-girl 101 Buber, Martin 119 Buddha nature 6 Buddhism 3–5, 6, 27, 29, 32, 67, 114–116, 118–121, 124, 151, 180 Buddhism and Psychology (Miyuki) 27 Bushido 35, 38 Cambray, Joe 150, 157 Carlyle, Thomas 188 Carroll, Lewis 30–31 causality 23 chess 31–32, 77 child analysis 187 children 101, 183–190 China: annexation by Japan 37; Confucianism 44–48; dragons 7, 151; expression of heart, soul, and mind 141; filial piety 46; gardens 19; hieroglyphs 11, 75–82; influence on Japanese literary works 179; influence on Wilhelm 23; mandala 142, 148; migration of people 175; subject/

194

Index

object relationship 8; training of Saicho 179 Choju-jinbutsu-giga (wildlife caricatures) 64–65 Christianity 85, 86, 90, 91, 114, 115–116, 162 Churchill, Winston 39 Church of San Damiano 85, 88, 90 circumambulation 169 Civilization and Its Discontents (Freud) 56 clothing 188–190 collective guilt 39–41 compassion: attitude 109–110; concept of 110; dreams and 110–111, 116; examples 110–114; importance of 6; married couple 116–117; religious significance of 114–117 Confucianism 44–48 consciousness 3, 20, 27, 156–159 conversion 85–86 Copernicus, Nicolaus 53 cosmogony 21 cosmogram 31 countertransference 187 COVID-19 15, 23–24, 154 Crawley, Ernest 56 cultural Father 44–46, 48 Culture of Narcissism (Lasch) 53 Dainas 153 Darwin, Charles 53 Deity (Kami) Age 20 Depth Psychology 75 dialectic 1–3 Diatkine, Gilbert 56 difference 1–3, 9–10, 54, 59–61, 102–103 Difficulty in the Path of Psycho-Analysis, A (Freud) 53 Dimen, Muriel 108 directed will 31 disfigured hero 40 dragonfly 145–148 dragons 7, 151–153 dreams: of Ainu 176–178, 181; as analogy of opus with emptiness 169–170; analysis of Pauli’s dream by Jung 169; archetypes and 75; compassion and 110–111, 116; dialogue 3, 10–11; dragons 151; interpenetration 10–11, 172; interpretation of 189; of Jung 64, 143; nature of universe 31; psyche and 150;

reflection and 187; of Saint Francis 84, 87; synchronistic events and 32, 64 early childhood care and education (ECCE): concept of 7, 183–184; method 184; theoretical examination 184–187 Earthly Sovereigns 20 East 1–3, 17–18, 22–24, 32–33 Edinger, Edward F. 9 Edo period 19, 65, 68 education 183–190 Ego 4–5, 7, 20, 30, 43, 122, 153–154, 156–157, 180 Ego and the Id, The (Freud) 59 ego-libido (narcissistic drive) 55–56 Ego–Self axis 9, 45–48 Eightfold Noble Path 29 Einstein, Albert 53 Eliade, Mircea 29 Ellis, Havelock 54 empathy 6 emptiness 5, 27, 165–170 empty ship 168–169 Endo, Shusaku 179 Engels, Friedrich 106–107 Enlightenment 162 Enso 5, 6, 27, 118–121, 124 Erikson, Erik 185 escabeau 59, 61 Eve 107 exclusionism 54 Faint Smiles of the Gods, The (Akutagawa) 179 fairy tales 11, 26–28, 75–76, 150 fantasies 75 Father 44–48 Father principle 8–9 Fa-Tzang 32 feminine 31 feminine principle 102–105 feminism 104 Ferenczi, Sándor 187 filial piety 45 First Life of St. Francis, The (Thomas of Celano) 86–87 Fludd, Robert 5 Foucault, Michel 108 Francis of Assisi, Saint: conversion 85–86, 91–92; dreams 84–90; early life 86–89; encounter with leprosy 90–91; encounter with spiritual father

Index 91; relationship with father 89, 91; re-sacralization of nature 11 Francis, Pope 84 French Revolution 162 Freud, Sigmund: Beyond the Pleasure Principle 55; Civilization and Its Discontents 56; Ego and the Id, The 59; on fantasies 75; Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego 56; influence 185; on narcissism 53, 54–61; Taboo of Virginity, The 55; theory of countertransference 187; Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality 55 friendship 6, 110, 112, 114, 155 Fromm, Erich S. 4 Gabbard, Glen 60 Gallard, Martine 58 game playing 31 gardens 19, 22, 152–153 Gegege no Kitaro (Mizuki) 68–71 gender: beyond feminine principle 102–105; certainty 100–102; children 101–102; concept of 9–10, 98; confusion 100–102; gender inequality 98; men 98–100 Germany 38, 40 Giegerich, Wolfgang 5–6, 162–163, 167 girl-boy 101 girl-girl 101 globalization 2, 15–18, 23–24 Gordon, Rosemary 56 Greek mythology 21 Green Tara 145 Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego (Freud) 56 guilt 39–41 Handbook of Buddhist Symbols, The (Beer) 29 Hanihara, Kazuro 175 Heian period 65, 67, 179 Heidegger, Martin 119 Hero myth 43, 48 heterosexuality 98, 105–106 hieroglyphs 11, 75–82 Hillman, James 4, 116, 129, 157 Hirohito, Emperor of Japan 41 Hisamatsu, Shinichi 6, 119–122 Hokusai, Katsushika 66–67 Hokusai Manga 66–67 homosexuality 98 house imago 142–148

195

Hwa Yen Buddhism 32 Hyakki-yako-zu [The Night Parade of One Hundred Demons] (Mitsunobu) 67 I Ching 23–24, 32 Igeta, Midori 35, 40 images: anima 105–106; animus 105–106; Christ image 30; gardens 19; hieroglyphs 75–82; house imago 142–148; manga 10, 40, 64–73; narcissism and 53–61; tree view therapy 122–123, 127–138; see also dreams individualism 53–54 individuation 2, 9, 15, 16, 48, 109, 113, 115, 128–129, 137–138, 143, 169, 170, 190 initiation 164 inner awareness 26–27 Inomata, N. 67, 68 interdependence 157–159 interpenetration 10–11, 172 intimate relationships 106–108 intuition 27 I – Thou relationship 6, 114 Iwao, Akita 152 Iyoku, A. 85 Jacobi, Jolande 141 Jacoby, Mario 58 James, William 85, 92 Japan: Ainu culture 10–11, 172–181; ancestor worship 179–181; ancestral realm 26; arts 18–19; Ashikaga period 35–36; characteristics of psyche 18–20; creation myths 20–22; dragons 151–153; Edo period 19, 65, 68; gardens 19, 22, 152–153; Heian period 65, 67, 179; Jomon period 172–175, 178, 180; leadership styles 7, 150, 154–159; male psyche 35; manga 10, 40, 64–73; martial society 35–37; maternal culture 8–9; Meiji period 37, 68; mirrors 28–29; Muromachi period 67; nature worship 179–181; psyche 154–159, 178–181; Shinto 11, 26, 29, 35, 97, 151; Tokugawa period 36; Wise Old Man leadership style 154–155; Zen art 120–122 Jesus Christ 11, 30, 64, 84, 85, 89–92, 115–116

196

Index

Jewel Broadcast (Hirohito) 38–41 Jomon period 172–175, 178, 180 Jones, Amelia 58 Jörgensen, Johannes 86 Jugyuzu 120 Jung, Carl G.: on Aion 17; animus and anima 106; conversation between Hisamatsu and 119–120; crisis of faith 64; on dragons 151–152; on dreams 89–90; on Ego 156–157; encounter with medical professor 162; feminine principle 103–104; on fundamental differences between East and West 32–33; house dream 143; on individuation/self-realization 115, 137–138, 170; on inner image of Christ 30; on mana 28–29; man eater dream 64; Memories, Dreams, Reflections 3, 22; “Memory of Richard Wilhelm, In” 22–23; on mirrors 30–32; on narcissism 56; on national peculiarities 154; on nihilism 163; on numbers 32; on others 72; paradigm 1; on passion of Christ 115; on psyche 32; Psychology and Alchemy 189; psychotherapeutic attitude to education 187; on psychotherapeutic process 188; Red Book, The 22; on Saint Francis 92; Septem Sermones ad Mortuos 4; spiritual worldview of the past 164; theory of countertransference 187; theory of opposites 103; Transformations and Symbols of the Libido 56; “Weltanschauung” of modernity 161 Kadowaki, K. 84 Kamakura era 65 Kami 10, 27, 28–29 Kamuy 176–177, 180 Kanaya, Takehiro 21 Kanzawa-Kiriyama, H. 175 karuna 114, 115 Kato, Kiyoshi 119–120, 122 Katsura Imperial Villa 19, 22 Kauffman, Stuart 150, 157 Kawai, Hayao 3–4, 8, 10–11, 22, 35, 37–38, 40–41, 68, 84, 150, 152, 153, 165–166, 172, 190 Kayano, S. 176 Kendo 35 Kepler, Johannes 5 Kitano Tenjin Shrine 67

Kitaro 68–71, 72 Kohut, Heinz 6, 58 Kojiki (Records of Ancient Matters) 20–22, 172 Kokoro 27 Komatsu, Kazuhiko 65, 67, 71 Korea 37 Kyouka-hyaku-monogatari [A hundred comic stories] (Ryukansai) 68 Lacan, Jacques 56–57, 59–61 Lasch, Christopher 53, 58 Latvia: dragons 151–153; leadership styles 7, 150, 154–159; psyche 154–159 leadership styles: in Japan 7, 150, 154–159; in Latvia 7, 150, 154–159; Wise Old Man 154–155 Legend of Three Companions, The (Three Companions) 86–89 Le Goff, Jacques 85, 86, 87, 90 Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien 29, 153 Lewis, Robert 155 libido 55–57, 59 Lila 31 Lilies 31 Lilith 107 linear perspective 20 MacArthur, Douglas 40 Mahayana Buddhism 6, 114–116 mana 28–29 mandala 3, 22, 120–121, 124, 141–142, 148, 169 manga: disfigured hero in 40; monsters in 68–73; roots of 10, 64–67 married couple 111–114, 116–117 martial society 35–37 Maruyama, Masao 21 masculine 31 maternal culture 8–9 Meiji period 37, 68 Memories, Dreams, Reflections (Jung) 3, 22 “Memory of Richard Wilhelm” (Jung) 22–23 men 98–100, 101, 102, 103 Michizane, Sugawara 67 minor differences 54, 59–61 Mirror and the Bell, The (Hearn) 26 mirror phase 57 mirrors: in Buddhism 29; Jungian view of 30–32; in Snow White 26, 27–28;

Index symbol of 5; tales from East and West 26, 27–29 Mitsunobu, Tosa 67 Miyuki, Mokusen 4–5, 27, 32 Mizuki, Shigeru 68–71 modernity 161 monogamy 107 monsters: in manga 68–73; in traditional works 67–68 Mother principle 8–9 Mugen-Kane [Bell of Mugen] (ancestral tale) 28 Muromachi period 67 mutual transformation 186–187 Myoe 84 myths 20–22, 75, 150, 151–152 Myths and Fairy Tales in Japan (Kawai) 172 Näcke, Paul 55 Nakagawa, H. 176, 181 Napier, Susan J. 71 narcissism: concept of 2–3; definition 54–57; minor differences and 59–61; pathology of 57–59; positive aspects of 58; selfies and 59–60; sublimation and 59; in women 58–59 Narcissus 54 naru 21 nature worship 179–181 Neumann, Erich 20, 44 New Right 106 Nguyen, Ngoc Tho 151 Nietzsche, Friedrich 37 nihilism 5–6, 161–164, 169 Nishida, Kitaro 27, 119 Nitobe, Inazo 35, 188 nothing 154 no-thingness 5, 27 nothingness 5 Number and Time (von Franz) 32 numbers 32 object 1, 7–8, 20, 27, 30, 47, 55–60, 108, 119, 124, 141, 165 object-libido (object drive) 55–56 O concept 5 Oda, Takao 97 omotenasi 180 Onin war 35–36 Ooka, Shunboku 65 organic consciousness 156–159 Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, The (Engels) 106–107

197

Oshima, N. 175 others 10, 40, 71–72 paradigm 1 participation mystique 153 passion 115 Perry, Matthew 36 personal experience 23–24 phurbas 145 Pikachu 71, 72 Pilens, Uldis 156 play therapy 7, 183 Pokemon 71 Prabhavati 29 promiscuity 106–108 psyche: archetypes 75–82; definition 32; dreams and 150; Japanese 154–159, 178–181; Latvian 154–159; male Japanese psyche 35; organic consciousness 156–159; Type-A psyche 15, 24; Type-B psyche 15, 24 psychiatric hospital case 123–124 psychoanalysis 53, 54 Psychology and Alchemy (Jung) 189 psychotherapy/analysis 107–108 qualitative numbers 5 quantitative numbers 5 Rank, Otto 31 Read, Herbert 161 Red Book, The (Jung) 22 reflection 27, 187 refractory chronic schizophrenia 127–138 Romanyshyn, Robert 20 Rowland, Susan 151–152 sadness 6, 110, 111, 114–115 Saicho (Buddhist priest) 179 Sailor Moon 71 Sakaguchi. K. 85 sameness 1–3 Samuels, Andrew 157 Samurai 35, 36 sandplay 6, 11, 76, 97, 121 Satoshi, Tajiri 71 scabeaustration 61 Schreber, Daniel P. 55 scrolls 64–65, 67–68 Searles, Harold 187 second millennium 11 Secret of the Golden Flower, The (Wilhelm, trans.) 3, 22

198

Index

Self 43, 45, 141, 153 selfies 59–60 Sengoku Jidai 36 Septem Sermones ad Mortuos (Jung) 4 sexual identity 105–106 Shamanism (Eliade) 29 shame 43–45 Shimizu, I. 67, 68 Shinto 11, 26, 29, 35, 97, 151 Shonen Magazine 68–70 silence 6 Silence (Endo) 179 simple expressions 121–123 Snow White (fairy tale) 26, 27–28, 30 soapbox 59 social media 53–54 spontaneous growth 31 subject 1, 5, 7–8, 15, 17, 20–21, 27, 30, 56, 61, 119, 128–129, 141, 153, 156, 163, 166–167, 172, 177–178, 180 sublimation 59 suffering 41, 72, 101, 110–117, 119, 120–121, 166, 179 Sumo 35 supra-ordinate totality 30 Svolos, Thomas 59 Sylvester, Saint 151 symbol formation process 141–142 synchronicity 24, 172 Taboo of Virginity, The (Freud) 55 Taiwan 37 Takama no Hara 29 Tanaka, M. 177 Taoism 151 Tavistock method 183 Thomas of Celano 86 Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (Freud) 55 Through the Looking Glass (Carroll) 26, 30–31 Toba-e (comic pictures/Edo era) 65 Toba Sojo 65 Tokuda, Y. 86 Tokugawa period 36

Transformations and Symbols of the Libido (Jung) 56 tree view therapy 6, 122–123, 127–138 tsukumo-gami (artifact spirits) 67–68 Tsumori, Makoto: example of philosophy in practice 187–190; inquiry into ECCE 7, 183–190; life and work of 184–185; on mutual transformation 186–187; philosophy in relation to Jungian psychology 185 tug o’ war 31 Type-A psyche 15, 24 Type-B psyche 15, 24 Ukiyoe 66 unconsciousness 3–4, 7, 156–157 United States 37–38, 103 Universal Mind (Kokoro/heart-mind) 33 victim envy 102 von Franz, Marie-Louise 20, 32 Wallon, Henri 57 West 1–3, 17–18, 22–24, 32–33 Wilhelm, Richard 3, 22–23 Winnicott, Donald W. 4 Wise Old Man leadership style 154–155 women: beyond feminine principle 102–105; gender inequality 98; wearing of high-heeled shoes 97–98 World War II 38–41, 53 Wotan 37–39 xenophobia 54 Yamada, T. 176 Yamada, Y. 173 Yama, Megumi 150, 152, 153–154 Yamanaka, Y. 127 Yayoi period 180 Yin/Yang 7 Zen 118–120, 124 Zenji, Hakuin 120 Zhuagzi 31